Memories of Easter and of a lollipop tree

By Hannah Dougherty Campbell

Our home in Overbrook Farms in West Philadelphia was built in 1894 and had a gigantic bay window in the living room, one which my mother used as her stage for holiday decorations. Her creative flair (on a shoestring budget) made the most insignificant item take on a life of its own. To wit, the lollipop tree.

I don't know where she came up with the idea, but in the 1950s and '60s, with six children one year apart in age - steps and stones, as the Irish say - she gave each one of us a lollipop on Easter Saturday and sent us outside to play and to bury the lollipop stick somewhere in the backyard.

Mom was methodical about bringing out a wooden ruler and instructing us to make sure only one inch of the white stick was still showing above the soil line. (I guess she did this so she could find them that night in the dark.) Of course, we later had to discover that they'd all "disappeared." It would ruin the entire "miracle" idea if all six sticks were still waiting in the yard where we planted them in a row.

Mom reminded us that if we were good the sticks would magically turn into a lollipop tree the next day. Despite our continual mischief, lo and behold, we'd descend the two flights of stairs on Easter morning to the heavenly scent of chocolate mingled with the fragrance of purple and pink hyacinth plants next to tall, trumpeting potted lilies. Our eyes gazed upon Easter baskets overflowing with waxy green grass and laden with eggs, jelly beans and marshmallow chicks. But the big attraction was the lollipop tree.

There it stood in the window, a huge tree branch in a flowerpot of dirt. Backlit by the sun, it resembled a majestic stained-glass window, its multicolored lollipops - the sticks taped to smaller branches - hanging upside down. More green grass hung like Spanish moss through the twigs and stems. It was always a wow moment.

Neighborhood children who visited us stood in awe before our miracle. Mom placed scissors nearby so that each child could cut down and enjoy a favorite-colored pop. I've since wondered why she didn't use those safety pops with loop handles to save herself time (which I do now). She could have avoided those Easters where the humidity made the tape wilt and the tree stood bare, our candy in the muddy flowerpot below. I also wondered how many of our little friends went home, planted a stick, and were disappointed when a tree didn't grow in their window on Easter morning.

Years later, when my five siblings and I had families of our own, we each adopted the lollipop tree custom. Naturally, our little ones have to fall asleep before the parents can go out into the dark and find the perfect branch. Sometimes an apple, cherry tree, or forsythia branch will bloom the next morning, an added surprise. Some years I've watered the mud too much, only to find the lollipop tree hanging down, leaning over my couch. I've had to tell my children that the Easter Bunny himself probably bumped into it.

Even now, Easter day means more than candy-filled baskets and fancy bonnets to me. It's the belief that something lovely can grow from a simple lollipop stick: a tree with beautiful colors, spring-like enchantment and tradition, the sweetness of simplicity and, perhaps most important, a mother's love.