Bunnies, Baskets, and the Traditions We Carry

Some of my earliest Easter memories stand nearly two feet tall.

My mother’s Easter baskets were not modest affairs. They were towering creations, brimming with plastic “grass,” an Easter coloring book and crayons, a new Easter hat for Sunday School, and crowned with a brand-new, stuffed Easter Bunny the size of a toddler. It was a basket meant for bounty and the promise of candy, coins, and pastel colored works of art.

On Easter morning, my mother would line us up and herd us down the hallway, still in our pajamas and slippers, toward the sliding glass door that led to our backyard. We knew what waited beyond it. The night before, we had carefully colored eggs using Paas dye tablets, lowering them into cups of jewel-toned water and watching as white shells transformed into streaked blues, greens, pinks, and yellows. By morning, those eggs, along with brightly colored plastic ones stuffed with our favorite candies, dollar bills, and the occasional quarter, were carefully secreted throughout the backyard. It was a good trick, given that most of it was covered in that short but sweet Southern California groundcover of choice, dichondra.

There was something magical about that ritual. There was the Easter morning wait for my parents to wake up and get their coffee, which nearly rivaled the angst of Christmas morning. The thrill of spotting a pastel egg tucked behind a shrub, snuggled in the ice plant, or peeking out of the holes in the concrete retaining wall. I would take off at full speed, not above strategically elbowing a sibling if it meant reaching treasure first. And finally, the way the basket grew heavier with every find. It was simple, yes, but it felt extravagant in the ways that mattered.

That particular joy can never quite be duplicated. Childhood rarely is. But like most parents, I tried. I built baskets. I hid eggs. I made sure the plastic grass clung to everything. My children grew up with their own Easter mornings, and in time, they recreated the tradition for their children. The baskets may change, and the candy brands evolve, but the instinct to create wonder remains remarkably steady.

The tradition itself stretches back far beyond our own backyards. Decorative eggs have symbolized renewal and rebirth for centuries, long before they became part of American egg hunts. German immigrants brought with them the legend of the Osterhase, an egg-laying hare who left gifts for well-behaved children. By the 18th and 19th centuries, the idea of children preparing nests for the Easter Bunny had evolved into woven baskets filled with eggs and sweets. Public egg hunts gained popularity in the United States in the late 19th century and continue today as community celebrations of spring and renewal.

For collectors, vintage Easter baskets, paper pulp eggs, celluloid rabbits, and early dye kits now tell that same story in tangible form. What once felt ordinary and fleeting has become, over time, an artifact of memory.

Last year, I experienced Easter in a way that has been foreign to my adult years. Instead of preparing baskets, I spent the morning with dear friends, JD and Victoria. To my complete surprise, they presented me with a vintage Easter basket of my own. It was thoughtfully filled with vintage treasures, a wind-up bunny (who currently sits on my desk), a rubber rabbit-duck, flower seeds, and, of course, chocolate and Peeps. It was both nostalgic and entirely new, a reminder that while traditions evolve, the impulse behind them does not.

They have already threatened to outdo last year’s treasure.

And I, for one, can hardly wait.