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 the 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.