There are some things I can’t recall about my childhood, but this I can, Easter.
No one had to tell me Easter was coming because the smell from Maas Walter’s bakery permeated the air. The sweet smell of buns baking was intoxicating. Your mouth watered, and your belly moved around with anticipation for what would always be a satisfying feast of bun and cheese.
Dads, moms, grandpas, and grandmas in the community, always knew when the buns would be ready. Now that I am older, I think Maas Walter must have talked with them about the date.
My grandmother told my brother, sister, and me to get ready to go pick up the buns. She tied the money to pay for the buns in a floral handkerchief, and told us to hold on tight to the handkerchief as we walked. We were not to play along the way, and make sure we didn’t loose the money for the buns.
It wasn’t always a walk down the hill to the bakery. We would sometimes run, and sometimes skip. We would run fast on Bargin level and slow down as we got to the hill near the tank. All our friends would know where we were going because they were preparing to do the same thing.
No playing marbles, no playing gig. Just a walk straight down the hill and back up as fast as possible to prepare the house and yard for Easter.
