Most of you know today is Good Friday and Sunday is Easter. But how many of you know what the day in between is called?
What, you don't know? Think about it a minute, take your time. Give up?
It's Saturday, silly. Or should I have typed "Silly, it's Saturday?"
I just don't want you running around telling people it's called Saturday Silly because that would be--you guessed it--silly.
Sorry friends. This is being composed way too close to April Fool's Day which makes being serious hard for people like me. I'll try to behave through the rest of this column, but you know I'll always be the squirmy noisy kid who shows up once a year on the Easter Sunday pew.
The day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday was Portrait Saturday in the Ruth household when I was a kid. That meant my mother, aka Saint Loretta, would lose a year off her life trying to get her three sons into their matching Easter suits and to the nearest portrait studio and home without mud, blood or vomit ruining said suits before their official donning on Easter morning.
Putting suits on three boys and expecting three clean suits and accessories to come back off is a true leap of faith for any mother. For my mother, it was more like a high dive off the Empire State Building.
Because, while I was a good boy way back then, my younger brothers were not. What that really means is I was very good at not getting caught. "Mitch did it" was my first response to any question by the time I turned 10.
In a couple more years, Mitch figured out getting someone else to do his dirty work served two purposes: maintaining the mischief and giving him cover. So "Johnny did it" became the go-to for every question directed toward me, my brother, my Dad, the neighbors, our playmates, and most of our cousins who lived nowhere near Elkhorn.
You might not believe this, but "Johnny did it" was the most likely response any Elkhorn Citian gave to any question before the turn of the century.
But I digress. Each year, my poor mother would clothe her three pride and joys in the finest Easter outfits one could find in the J.C. Penny catalog's boys section for that rarest of treasures, a three son portrait with no tears, no tantrums and no torn pockets.
Research tells me all her years of effort yielded exactly one of those treasures and that was made possible by the roll of Certs someone handed Johnny to distract him from the fit he was throwing just seconds before the shutter was opened. The pack is clearly visible in his 2 year old fist.
Portrait Saturday isn't what it used to be. Not at the Ruth household, or anywhere else. Seems digital cameras in everyone's pocket has killed the desire for family portraits. There's not much reason to buy 8 copies of wallet sized, 2 album sized and an 8x10 suitable for framing when you can just hand someone your cell phone.
On the other hand, somewhere retired Olan Mills employees still have nightmares about Portrait Saturdays with the dark haired angel and her three blonde devils.
And for that I'm truly sorry. Johnny did it.