I remember the eggs.
The entire idea was so completely outlandish that it had a certain charm to it. Cupping your hands about a shiny round object was a revelation. The first Easter eggs I remember were the plastic kinds, the ones which dropped out of vending machines after you stuck twenty-five cents in. I collected those throughout the year and when Easter came, my Mom helped me decorate them by gluing bits of ribbon and glitter to them.
Later, I was allowed to use hard-boiled eggs. We might dye them or use markers. I was a horrible designer. The eggs usually turned out like a tie-dye gone wrong. My hands ended up looking the same. I wanted to eat the eggs afterwards, but my parents never let me. I guess they were right, because I cracked one of the eggs open and discovered the colors had bled inside–the egg whites had turned blue and the yolk an unpleasant gray.
That had been fun. But now all I have are chocolate bits wrapped in shiny foil. Damn commercialism.
The Origin of Easter. I tried finding something that was not an extended religious rant on the evils of pagan worshippers.
Sad, but funny. Oh, what lengths die-hards try to be popular (when they already are). (See March 29th entry.)