Sometimes, we'd dye them in the Greek tradition, which, for you non-Greek heathens, is to dye all of them a deep red. No multiple colors, no festive wax drawings or stickers. Just a dark ... blood red ... Easter egg. To represent the blood of Christ, you see.
Good times for little kids, I tell ya.
Easter morning, we'd wake up to a magically filled Easter basket, complete with marshmallow eggs, jelly beans, and a giant chocolate bunny. That Easter Bunny, he never held back. Sometimes he even left extra candy for my parents, too. What a rabbit! He never held a grudge against my dad for wanting to trap and skin him.
We'd then go on an Easter egg hunt. Perhaps aware of the trauma blood red eggs cause, the Bunny would leave Cadbury Creme Eggs (R) throughout the house. Oh, what fun we had trying to find them before Dad ate them all! Then we'd sit down and peel off the foil carefully, biting into the sugary goodness. When my sister and I were about four creme eggs in, Mom would remind us that we had a dentist appointment on Wednesday.
All in all, Easter was full of happy memories. (Except for the year that we learned one should never, ever, die right before Easter because it's impossible to book a church for the funeral, but that's a hilarious story for another time.) Truly, the worst thing about growing up is no longer getting a basket full of goodies on Easter Sunday. But I have to tell you, the blood-red Easter eggs have really grown on me.