Even though my earliest memories are all nightmares (some so persistent and detailed that my mother can recall the storylines 30-odd years later), I have a pretty early recollection of Easter.
Although I went to Catholic school, I’m not entirely sure I appreciated the ‘true’ meaning. In fact, let’s just assume I didn’t get it. Case in point: I was 15 before I understood that the communion wine (of which I was a big fan and consistent consumer) was believed to be converted to the blood of Christ. Blech.
That stated, what I recall is that my mother would bust out the baskets (as the same set were used year after year), and I would spend the next week skipping through the house singing, “Here comes Peter Cottontail, hopping down the bunny trail, hippity-hoppity Easter’s on it’s way…” on a constant loop.
If there are more lyrics to that song, I never learned them, although - in my own defense - I was probably four or five years old.
Along with the celebratory song, most of my joy centered around the imminent advent of candy. Much as Christ would reappear to the Disciples, I knew that candy was preparing to make a rare comeback in my own life.