“Don’t move!” Dad called, his voice warm but serious, as he peered through the square little window of his camera.
We stood lined up on the front steps, squinting into the bright Easter sun. It was one of those perfect spring mornings in the 1960s—the kind where the sky stretched wide and blue without a single cloud, and the air smelled faintly of fresh-cut grass and blooming lilacs.
Mama had dressed us all carefully, of course. She always did , but this was Easter Sunday.
There were five of us girls, each in our Easter dresses—each of us wore white gloves that already felt too warm in the sunshine. Our patent leather shoes shined like mirrors, and our socks were folded just so.
And then there was Billy
He stood proudly at the end of the line, the only boy among us, wearing his light blue coat and matching cap. Mama had fussed over him the longest, brushing invisible lint from his shoulders and straightening his collar again and again. He looked like he’d stepped right out of a catalog from Sears, Roebuck & Co., and he knew it too—standing tall, chin lifted.
“Alright now—big smiles!” Dad said.
Mama stood off to the side, one hand resting on her waist, the other shading her eyes. “That’s enough pictures, Frank,” she said with a soft laugh. “The eggs won’t wait all day.”
At the word eggs, everything changed.
Our careful poses dissolved into excited whispers and bouncing feet. The backyard held the promise of hidden treasures—brightly colored eggs tucked into the crooks of trees, behind flower pots, and beneath the porch steps. Some held candy, others coins, and one—just one—held a whole silver dollar.
Dad lowered the camera, smiling as he watched us. “Alright,” he said, “on your mark…”
We leaned forward, ready.
“Get set…”“Go!”
The grass was still cool beneath our shoes as we searched. I found my first egg near the base of the old oak tree, its shell dyed a cheerful yellow. My sister Mary squealed from behind the rose bushes, holding up a pink one like it was the greatest prize in the world.
Billy determined to prove himself, searched with serious focus, checking every corner with the dedication of a young explorer. “I’m gonna find the big one,” he declared.
Mama watched from the porch, holding a wicker basket filled with extra eggs, just in case. The screen door creaked softly behind her as it swung open and shut in the breeze. Inside, we knew, the table was set with a proper Easter meal—ham, deviled eggs, and her famous pineapple upside-down cake cooling on the counter.
Dad followed us into the yard, camera still in hand. Every now and then he captured another moment.
“Found one!” I called.
“Me too!”
“I got two!”
Then suddenly—
“I found it!” Billy shouted.
He stood near the fence, holding up a slightly larger egg, dyed a deep blue. His grin stretched from ear to ear, pride shining brighter than the morning sun.
Dad raised the camera one more time.
Billy in his light blue coat and cap, holding his prize like a champion.
Mama clapped her hands softly. “Well, I think that calls for breakfast,” she said.
We gathered our eggs and made our way back toward the house, our shoes tapping lightly against the wooden steps. The front door stood open, welcoming us inside, where the smell of coffee and warm bread wrapped around us like a hug.
Dad lingered a moment longer outside.
He looked at the yard, now scattered with the echoes of our laughter, then down at his camera. Carefully, he tucked it away. Moments like these didn’t last forever—but somehow with the camera, they would be.
And even as we rushed inside, chattering and comparing our treasures, the sunlight lingered on the front steps—where just a little while ago, we had all stood together, frozen in time, dressed in our Easter best.
Moral of the story—Always check your camera for film. 1960’s
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