In my earliest clear memory of Easter, I was about five or six, my dress was pale orchid organdy, and I carried a basket almost as large as I.

Perhaps this memory remains sharply honed by the Kodak color photo that shows me standing on the sidewalk in front of my grandmother's house, so skinny and knobby-kneed, I appear at first glance to be a hungry waif, one of those 'starving children in Europe' my grandmother talked about.

However, on closer examination, the black patent Mary Janes, the lace-trimmed anklets, the organdy dress, and the ridiculous matching straw hat with its floppy ribbon, pointed to a child carefully dressed for Sunday School on Easter Sunday.

My favorite part was dying the eggs and the Saturday night ritual was on the same excitement level as trimming a Christmas tree. Coffee cups were lined up on the kitchen table, each containing a Paas tablet. We poured boiling water over the tablets and added a spoonful of vinegar before carefully lowering the boiled eggs and turning them around and around so the colors would be even, using the flimsy wire 'lifter' provided in the kit. We oooh'd and aaah'd as the colors developed, some years keeping the delicate pastels and other years preferring deeper, more vivid colors.

By the time I dyed eggs with my children, Paas had come a long way, and we went through a variety of stripes, wax pencils, wraps, decals, swirls, and artsy patterns and the spoonful of vinegar was no longer necessary.

The results didn't always mirror the images on the box, but no one seemed to notice. On the contrary, there were many ooh's and aah's as the eggs were lifted from the dye or an image was identified as the smeary decal dried.

Years later, I overheard my grown son complain to his girlfriend. "Can you believe we had Easter bowls! Mom gave us baskets when we were little, but when we were teenagers, she gave each of us a bowl!" The girlfriend's eyes widened as she tried to fathom being dealt such a hand.

The Easter bowls! And I thought I was being a great mom and doing those kids a favor! Blessed with three teenagers at once, I didn't want to embarrass my kids who by then were taller than I, playing football, and taking Driver's Ed. I felt certain that baskets bedecked with pastel ribbons would give cause for "Oh, God, Mom! Hide them before someone comes in!" After all, they were at that age, kids who rolled their eyes, just-ready-to-die in their embarrassment over everything their parents did anyway.

Those Easter bowls were born out of respect and consideration! Each Easter morning, three large earthenware bowls lined the kitchen counter, each with a smidgen of colorful Easter grass and overflowing with chocolate bunnies, marshmallow eggs, Cadburys and Peeps. A small personal gift was always tucked in there too, hidden among the candy. Those bowls, unlike baskets, could be carried to their rooms with a bit of dignity! The bowls would be festive but not babyish, certainly nothing to roll the eyes and groan over.

Never had a teenager complained about those bowls, so I was surprised and crushed when, at least ten years later, I heard my son's complaint that he received a bowl and not a basket. Ahhhh! The lengths we will go to for our children! And they don't appreciate it!

And now there's little Amy, a new generation, who has her own slant on Easter. I recall a phone conversation when she was about four. She was bubbling over with tales of bunny rabbits and candy. When I asked about the Easter Bunny, her reply was so enthusiastic, I could almost feel the tiny specks of spittle spraying the phone. "Yes. The Easter Bunny came to my house while I was sleeping and brought me a big basket. It had lots of candy in it but Daddy ate all the chocolate ones. Mommy said he always eats all the chocolate. And you know what else we did? We went to the park and Daddy hid my Easter eggs from me and I found them back! Then I hid them from Daddy and he found them back! Daddy missed one."

And when she's seventeen, I bet her daddy gives her an Easter bowl!

(Copyright Patricia Paris 2004
Patricia Paris is an author and columnist from Chattanooga.
Contact Ms.Paris at patriciaparisbooks@hotmail.com)