In a couple of months I will have been away from my native state 69 years. Oh, I’ve been back for visits, but I shall not have been at home there. For the most part I have adjusted well, but if anything can make me homesick it’s three feet of snow or however many feet we’ve had.

In early April 1946, my mother and I went back to visit one of her sisters. We had flowers from Aunt Edith’s garden on the table every day, little spring onions with our noon meals and walked warm in the sunshine. When we came back to Albert Lea, the snow hadn’t even melted.

Unless things at home have changed a great deal, I know that the little miniature iris that we called &uot;flags&uot; are well in bloom. Deep purple they are, with a fresh fragrance that I always thought of as a &uot;purple smell&uot; and associated with Easter, my favorite holiday.

Easter wasn’t always the best day in the spring. If it rained it was pretty much like every other Sunday. If it were warm and sunny, though, it was truly the beginning of a new season. Little girls got to wear half socks and their new Easter shoes to church. It was a very good day.

Rain or shine, we always had great mounds of beautifully colored and decorated Easter eggs. Several of the relatives were always at our house for Easter dinner. The cousins from the farm were always there, the youngest, a boy my age, and I always got red baskets full of candy Easter eggs and jelly beans, which we spent the afternoon happily devouring.

The jelly beans always involved a private ritual. Billy liked licorice, the black ones, and I liked cinnamon. So before we began to eat them, we made an exchange with great formality. I gave him all my black beans, he gave me all his red beans.

A sergeant in World War II, he was decorated for &uot;beyond the call of duty&uot; courage during the Battle of the Bulge. Scores of our friends were killed. Bill came home and made a point of taking personal effects put in his care to the families of friends that had been killed and talking to the bereaved. It was a great strain. He died from a heart attack when he was 33, leaving a wife and young daughter.

It was always a matter of pride in the family that though we had family members in the war, no one was ever drafted, but always volunteered. We were always against war, though, knowing there were better ways to settle disputes.

My great uncle, who had fought in several Indian uprisings, was also a veteran of the Spanish-American War. He used to tell me about that one, with a kind of amused cynicism. An older brother of his had not survived the Civil War, war that separated him from his grandparents, uncles, cousins, who fought with the Confederate Army. Another war that could have been prevented.

I always liked the story of a northern businessman, who transferred to a company down south and found that he was anything but welcome. Still, he and his wife did their best to participate in community affairs. Attending a PTA meeting one night, the man was fronted by a formidable southern woman. She pointed out a painting of Lee surrendering to Grant.

&uot;Do you have any idea what that meant?&uot; she inquired. Weary of the constant needling, the transplanted one murmured, &uot;I always thought it meant that the war was over.&uot;

Well, whatever the weather, Easter will come, spring is on the way. Snow still lies thick in my driveway and I’m a little worried about getting this column to The Tribune tomorrow morning. It is helpful to remember to cross my bridges as I come to them. Most things have a way of turning out all right.

Snowed in, I’ve spent most of my day reading about my great hero, Thomas Jefferson. They knew how to elect intelligent presidents back then. Probably because there wasn’t any television.

So many of the conservative commentators use our forefathers to back up their views on politics and religion. They really should do a little more study on the subject. They might gain some new and exciting insights.

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.