The only real Easter memory that I have is from when I lived in New York City, as a little girl. Every year the doormen would give me and my brother, and all the other children in the building, a little easter bag filled with a stuffed bunny, and a bunch of chocolates in foil shaped like ladybugs. I was too young to remember much from those years, but I have a vivid memory of this: standing by the front door to our building, looking up at the doorman in his crisp suit, being totally delighted with my treats.
It occurs to me that between my jewish relatives, jewish pre-school, and jewish friends from pre-school, the doormen at our building might have been the only actual Christian people I knew at that young age. Sort of strange, but very New York.