Of all the Easter horror stories, none can top mine. It was 1983, and I was 13 at the time. My Great Uncle Gabe was in town for Easter. Usually Cousin Ann went to Chicago to be with her father for Easter, but this time the old man came to Portland.
Gabe was quite the talker. Before dinner, he told me about his service in the Air Force. I had been watching a lot of old war movies on TV, so I was fascinated by his stories.
After eating eggs, ham, and rosemary potatoes, Gabe and my sister Liz joined me in the living room while the adult women did dishes. While Liz watched TV, Gabe told me a story about Easter when he was a boy in Hungary.
“For Easter, we used to have roasted goat,” Gabe said. “All of my aunts, uncles, and cousins would come to our house. I used to really like looking for Easter eggs. My cousins would stay close to the house, so I always found a bunch by going off toward the trees. One year when I was about 5, I was looking for an egg near a tree, when my uncle Gustav introduced me to a new Easter tradition.”
Gabe’s voice softened as he continued. “Gustav said that penis cleaning is an Easter tradition in our family. He took a couple of rags and vigorously cleaned his and my penis. It was uncomfortable, and I didn’t like it, but Gustav did. We moved to Chicago a couple of years later. I’m glad that’s not a tradition in this country.”
Great Uncle Gabe died in 1989. To this day, I can’t think about Easter without thinking about this poor old man being molested as a boy. Easter is ruined forever for me.
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