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During my childhood, say, between 1962 and 1968, Easter celebrations became primarily associated in my mind with my paternal Grandparents rural property.   My Grandfather liked to hide eggs and baskets for his grandchildren; by the time I was able to enjoy the experience, my paternal cousins were too old to participate.  My Grandmother loved to prepare the Sunday afternoon dinner, which was followed by a long visit in a relaxed and casually rural atmosphere.  Having both been raised on farms, their residence and the land on which it was situated resembled a farm (several outbuildings, a plank bridge over a small creek's smallest branchlet, a rather large vegetable garden (sometimes, if I recall correctly, with summer corn), and across the plank bridge, a wildflower meadow (of which the northeast corner was occupied by a large rectangular, or oblong, stack of scrap metal that my Grandfather collected), and beyond the meadow, a dark and foreboding walnut woods into which I was not permitted (and was none to anxious for) entrance.  Their immediate neighbor, northward, who seemed to be very elderly, was a beekeeper; and, when the date of Easter was in later spring, the wildflower meadow would be very busy with pollengathering.  Easter primarily, and then Thanksgiving and Christmas, were associated, in my mind, with that bucolic place.

Starward