Red Egg Day was the name given by the neighborhood boys for the
observance of Easter Sunday by the local Macedonian Orthodox community.
Our neighborhood was located in the Cabbagetown area of Toronto around Saint
Georges Macedonian Church on Regent Street. I lived four doors east of the
Church on Sutton Avenue.
My Father was an immigrant from Macedonia and my Mother an Irish
immigrant. I grew up enjoying both cultures. My mother became exceptionally
fluent in the Macedonian language, as a consequence of this our neighbors
considered us a Macedonian family.
Red egg day was one of the many cultural adventures that I was to experience
in my neighborhood. We enjoyed a lively, rich and diverse ethnic mix in our area.
The majority were of English, Irish, Scots and French Canadian descent. They
called themselves Canadians being of second and third generation. This was in
distinction to us first generation children of immigrants. They categorized us as
Macedonians, Italians, Ukrainians, Greeks or "honkys", though in fact we were
Canadians being born here. Not yet arrived was the general thinking of the day
in 1940's Toronto.
I now present some background facts before setting the scene for Red Egg day.
Though my Father was of the Macedonian Orthodox faith my brothers and I with
my Mother attended Sackville Street Mission an evangelical protestant church.
Saint Georges Macedonian Church on the corner of Regent Street and Sutton
Avenue was built in 1948. The congregation was comprised of adherents local
and from throughout the city.
The custom of the community was to gather for the Communion service on
Sunday mornings. In the evenings they would come together in the lower church
hall for music and dancing of the traditional village dances called the Oro.
My Father was a musician and played his violin on Sunday nights with the
band. Macedonian weddings took place on Sundays with the obligatory
celebration of supper and dancing into the night, always a joyous occasion.
At this very social time young men could look over the young women and vice
versa. News, gossip, births, deaths not to forget engagements discussed between
families.
These people came from villages and this was their haven in this new country to
group as a village in the church hall for their social life.
The Orthodox Christians celebrated Easter usually later by a week or so than
the traditional observance of Canadians. They followed the old Church calendar.
This caused friends to complain that they did not get two extra holidays. A
difference being there was no mention of the Easter Bunny or of Santa Claus on
these religious somber holidays.
On the first Easter after the Church was built and completed in 1948 the
Macedonians community celebrated this occasion in the traditional manner as
practiced in their homeland. This event proved to be quite a happening for the
neighborhood on the four short blocks in the precincts of the Church.
Late Friday night a procession filed out of the Church onto Regent Street.
It was led by Priests and deacons with others carrying religious banners and
large crosses. The congregation followed all carrying lit candles.
The purpose was to parade along the four blocks surrounding the Church
and then return. A commemoration of accompanying Christ's body to the tomb.
The people who lived on these streets, Protestant and Catholic had neither
seen, expected, or were informed that this religious procession would occur,
especially this late at night.
The sound of Orthodox two part hymn sung by the Priest and Deacons was
answered in song by the congregation This somber sung liturgy preceded the
participants so that the residents on Sydenham Street could hear the harmonic
singing before they could see those who were singing turning the corner eastward
onto their Street. What met their eyes was a, a multitude, a parade, a procession
such as was never seen in this neighborhood before.
The street lights were dim in those days. In the darkness between street lights the
lit candles showed only the faces and a shadowed mass of the bodies of moving
people.
It was a slow and organized procession singing and stopping on the Priests
cue every few paces. They were a group with a purpose and destination as yet
unknown to the watching spectators on Sydenham Street.
Turning north onto Blair Avenue the leaders headed towards our street
Sutton Avenue. Blair Avenue was more of a paved lane rather than a street, it had
no houses on its short narrow length between Sydenham and Sutton Avenue. This
caused the procession to form into a narrow grouping behind the Priests and
deacons and not spread out as before; this seemed to make the procession
endless. People were still on Sydenham Street when the leaders reached Sutton
Avenue and turned westward towards the Church.
I digress for a moment. My Father who had taken part in these customs as a
boy in Macedonia was not home. He was working the night shift that week. As this
was the very first celebration of a traditional Orthodox Easter Service by th
congregation in their new Church building, he forgot to tell my Mother what
would take place and when. Or he was not aware this was to take place.
My Mother was asleep in the second floor bedroom at the back of our house
which looked out onto Blair Avenue.
She was awakened by the sound of the solemn sung liturgy coming from this
procession as it walked up Blair Avenue. Looking out the window she was
frightened by the sight of this candlelit spectacle. Coming toward her was this
multitude led by robed and bearded men wearing what seemed to be crowns. The
candle light was illuminating the faces and the upper part of their bodies.
This combined with the somber singing presented a scene of which she had never
experienced before. With no husband at home for protection!
What was this? Was this the Resurrection?
My Mother was a devout Bible reading Christian, and was scripturally aware of
the Resurrection, a coming judgment, and the expected second coming of Christ.
Was this fearful candlelit night scene unfolding before her eyes one or all these
things?
What of these robed men leading this procession? Were they Priests or
Angels? No experience in her life prepared her for this frightening sleep
disrupting spectacle.
A true mother her thoughts were for the safety of her family, rousing my two
brothers and I. She ushered us out onto our verandah, ready for flight or fight as
was necessary.
Coming out onto the verandah we saw neighbors gathered at the corner.
"What the hell is this?" "it's the Macedonians", we heard people exclaim. There
was surprise in their voices, as they did not expect this type of event at this time of
night. It was a light and sound show the likes of which they had never seen before,
not here in Cabbagetown anyway. Even the Catholics who were used to
processions were moved at the sheer grandeur and size of this group. It seemed as
if every Macedonian in the City of Toronto was here celebrating this first ever
Easter procession. It may have been the first ever in Canada?
We lived one house from the corner of Blair and Sutton Avenue: our high
verandah gave us a vantage point to view the passing celebrants. Strangely it
struck a responsive cultural chord deep inside of my eight year old soul. The
instinct was one of familiarity though I had never seen this before.
Knowledge of what was occurring had relieved my Mothers fears. In the
procession we began to see the familiar faces of Macedonian neighbors and those
of our relatives. As they passed they smiled and waved to us on the verandah as if
we knew what was going on. We certainly did not. I went down and joined some
of my friends who followed the procession to the Church.
One by one the neighbors dispersed for home and bed. "It's all over for
tonight"
"The shows over" they called out and then the familiar quietness of midnight
descended over our street.
We returned to our beds with my Mother remarking "Just wait until your Father
gets home". I went to sleep not knowing that what had occurred would set the
scene for Red Egg Day on Sunday morning.
It was Sunday morning and there was great activity at the Church. The
occurrence of the night procession drew a group of boys myself included to the
steps of the Church. Some of the boys had missed what had happened being
asleep or not allowed to go and see. We awaited the exit of the worshippers,
having seen them arrive for the morning service and if another procession was
going to happen we did not want to miss it.
"Hey Thompson did you sing and carry a candle the other night?" "Yah I
saw him singing and dancing" said another boy in a jeering manner. These
remarks placed me squarely on the Macedonian side of my dual culture! And here
I was gathered with them on my Canadian (Irish) side of culture.
Such is the nature of a group of boys to pick on the weakest and smallest of
their group. (I experienced it then I see it now)
They of course did not see me in the procession as I was on the verandah
with my Mother and brothers. How to answer? This posed a problem for an eight
year old dual ethnic boy. One part of me wanted to answer boldly and stand up
for my Macedonian heritage. And yet a street smart Cabbagetown boy knows a
too smart response brings consequences from older boys.
What to do? What to do? Why of course do nothing, act as if I did not hear the
jeering remarks. I was learning my place in the society of boys.
People began leaving the Church after the morning service. Many of the
women were carrying bowls and baskets of dark red dyed eggs. It was these red
hard boiled eggs which drew our eyes like magnets to metal.
At that time I did not realize the religious or cultural significance of these eggs
prepared by the Orthodox believers. Years later I learned that to these
Macedonian Orthodox Christians that the red dyed egg is symbolic of the grave and life redeemed by breaking out of it. The red dye symbolizes the blood of
Christ redeeming Mankind. The egg itself is said to be a symbol of the
resurrection, while being dormant it contains new life sealed within it.
Traditionally red eggs are given with the Macedonian paschal greeting
"Christ is risen".
My married Cousin spotted me among the boys grouped to the side of the
steep stairs of the front entrance of the Church. Coming over she gave me a red
egg, kissed me on the cheek and said "Christ is risen"
Eying my prize, the group of boys began exercising their native cunning and
Cabbagetown smarts. They recognized my receiving a red egg was due to my
Macedonian ethnic.
Their pals and school chums were Macedonian and they all knew the common
greeting. One and all began shouting to my Cousin "Sho praish Bratchko" some
shouted "Dobra den, dobra den" hey lady we are Macedonians also!
She and some of the other ladies with her began to laugh at these shouted claims
of nationality. And being caught up in the spirit of the moment gave a red egg to
each of the boys who had suddenly and marvelously it seemed converted to
Macedonian Orthodoxy.
In that moment, at that humorous instant and spirit of the occasion we did not
care who was a Smith or who was a Doncheff. Or who was an Evans or who was
a Thompson. The Popovitches, Petcoffs, Meloffs, Nancheffs, and Tippoffs, were
one and the same with the Begleys, Smiths, Jones, Bice, Capastrands, Harrises
and Haddletons. We had been transformed into The Brotherhood of the Red Egg.
We were all buddies, we all looked alike and of the most importance we all had a
red egg. On that morning we had coalesced into one spirit (or that is how I see it
now)
Suddenly the air seemed to crackle with static electricity. A feeling
recognized by boys descended over our group. Boys know and sense this primitive
and instinctive moment when it occurs. A fight was about to take place.
I turned to see Lenny Doncheff square up to Chris Poppovitch their faces intent
on each others egg. They were sizing up the opponents egg for some sign of
weakness or defect.
Instinctively we formed a circle around these two. It was the old primordial wolf
pack circle watching and waiting for one to fall.
What were they going to do with these eggs? Throw them at each other? My gaze
went to the adults who seemed unperturbed by this circle of boys which usually
meant a fight. Unlike today's society of minding their own business, or non
response to someone in trouble, men or women of our neighborhood would
intercede. Fair play was a cardinal rule; no big kid could get away with bullying
a smaller one, even if evenly matched adults would break up a crowd watching a
fight.
Yet here in this gladiatorial ring two boys were posed for what seemed the
prelude to a fight. Words passed between them "hold or hit?" Where they going
to hit each other, with these eggs? Did not these very eggs come from the Priests
blessing? What kind of profane action was about to take place? The circle
tightened.
At this point I must explain my ignorance of these matters, did I not say I was
of Macedonian descent? Should I not have known about what was about to take
place?
Yes I had known about red eggs at Easter but only as Macedonian neighbors had
them for home consumption. Usually an older woman would give my brothers and
I an egg. We did not dye eggs at Easter as my Mother would say we are not of the
Orthodox faith. This was the first time I had seen so many red eggs and this was
the first Easter celebration by Macedonians at their new Church.
Lenny Doncheff held out his hand with the egg protectively covered leaving
only the pointed top quarter of his egg exposed. Then Chris Poppovitch turned his
egg so the pointed end faced down then brought his egg down swiftly on the held
egg! With a cry of victory the striking egg had had broken the shell of the held
egg!
Who is next the winner said? Immediately a boy that I did not recognize pushed
forward. The decision hold or hit decided on. The egg of the stranger came down
on Chris' egg breaking its shell. No cry of victory this time as the previous
winner's egg was cracked.
The winner was a visitor with his parents from Detroit, Michigan here to
celebrate Easter in the new Church. He was somewhat different from us. He
exuded a cocky confidence that we did not possess. There was something in his
manner of a big city boy among small town boys. He began directing us, taking
over with a bold manner. Line up you choose, I don't care hold or hit, it doesn't
matter to me.
Now among boys in sports or a fight you never give away an advantage, in fact
you look for an advantage, or were learning to look. His indifference did not seem
right somehow? Boy after boy lined up and boy after boy lost! His super egg was
invincible, hold or hit. Was it because his egg was an American and ours were
Canadian as he kept telling us? Soon all our eggs were broken except mine. I
guess he figured I wasn't worth a challenge. Danny Melloff an older boy noticing
this said give me your egg to beat this jerk. Same result my egg also became one
of the vanquished.
Some men had been watching, perhaps remembering doing this in their
youth. They came closer as this American super egg continued winning over our
Canadian eggs.
Suddenly ethnic had disappeared and nationalism now crept into the picture.
By this I mean by the fourth or fifth broken egg it was America versus Canada as
he praised his American egg.
One of the men asked to see his egg. Refusing, he began walking up the twelve
steep stairs for sanctuary in the Church and his parents. One of the boys
suspecting something phony made a grab for the egg. Pulling back from the boys
grasp the egg came out of his hand. As if in slow motion we all watched
mesmerized as the red super egg turned end over end in a high looping arc. It hit
the steps, and the sound it made was certainly not that of a hard boiled egg!
Boink, Boink, Boink, it was the sound of a wooden egg bouncing down four steps
to the concrete sidewalk.
Young Al Capone looked at us with a trapped expression on his face. He saw
we realized we had been duped. Turning he began to bound up the remaining
eight steps of the steep entrance way to the Church.
Mistake number one was trying to con Cabbage town boys. No matter of what
descent Macedonian or other wise. We were Cabbage town boys regardless of
ethic. And as I remarked earlier he brought nationalism into this, we were
Canadian and he was American.
Mistake number two was not realizing Cabbagetonians were noted as
ballplayers, every boy in our neighborhood could throw a baseball, fast, accurate
and hard. He was escaping, and we standing, not with baseballs in our hands but
hard boiled red eggs. Broken shelled red eggs, all the result of a wooden egg.
The first egg hit him directly on the back of his head. Bang, bang, bang as other
eggs hit him in the back. My egg flew over his head and smacked into the Church
door breaking completely apart. Two more eggs hit him on the back of the head
and as he opened the door one egg went flying into the Church vestibule.
He ran into the Church hit by at least seven eggs and the sound of jeering
laughter. The men who had been watching us were dumb struck and transfixed by
these amazing events, except for the two men who had asked to see this wonder
egg, they were laughing uproariously at the outcome.
The Church door burst open, out came an angry red faced man, the parent I
supposed of the boy who had conned us. He was shouting "what kind of way was
this to treat visitors to Canada," as he gestured wildly while hurriedly coming
down the stairs trying to catch us. More angry looking people came out of the
Church obviously upset at the sacrilege of eggs being thrown at this visiting boy.
No doubt some were parents coming to see if their sons were involved in this
profane act. Then out comes Popo Mihailovich the Priest looking very angry
trying to determine if any of his flock were involved in this profanity of throwing
eggs that he had blessed not minutes before. Which indeed they were, but all he
saw were the backs of laughing boys fleeing the vicinity.
There are rules among boys in our neighborhood known as rule number one,
two and three. Rule number one, when in trouble run. Rule number two; run so as
not to get caught. Rule number three, was to run in different directions.
We scattered to the four winds. We scattered not an ethnic group now but as a
proud national group of Canadians. Canada was revenged. We ran as Canadian
boys laughing joyously. Canada settler of scores. American eggs better than
Canadian eggs that will be the day!
Behind us lay a debris of red egg shells white and yellow pieces of the eggs
strewn and shattered over the steps of the Church. Visually it looked like a
battlefield of broken parts of ten or twelve eggs. It was in fact a battlefield, a cultural battlefield
I returned to the Church after an hour or so in the belief everyone had gone
home. Is it not a true saying the criminal always returns to the scene of his crime?
The church janitor was busy trying to scrape off the egg debris which was ground
into the concrete steps by the departing parishioners.
I walked past trying to look as Canadian and as disinterested as I could.
He sullenly glanced at me and muttered "Kopeeleh". He no doubt suspected me
as one of the earlier trouble makers. Hearing him call me a bastard set my ethnic
cunning in motion. Both sides of my cultural descent are very proud and I
certainly knew who my Father was. I smiled at him and said in English "Happy
Easter". Taken off his guard he smiled at me and nodded his head, probably sorry
for his remark, to what was obviously a very polite Canadian boy.
I walked to what I thought was a safe distance. I whistled to get his attention;
he straightened up to look at me. Turning around I bent over and pointed to my
rear end then I shouted in my very best Macedonian "Baknoova moy guzo" (kiss
my ass)
I then followed rule number one and ran off laughing, rules two and three were
matters of habit.
Oh, the feeling of an eight year old that has two cultures to draw from on this first
Red Egg Day of my life. Revenge first on the smart alec American boy; then on an
adult that called me a bastard.
By the way, what happened to the wooden egg? The small guy just happened
to pick it up in all the confusion and attempted escape of the American for
sanctuary in the Church. If you wish to see this red wooden egg let me know I still
have it. A trophy of the Macedonian cultural war in Cabbagetown you might say.