At the age of 30, I began a May Day tradition with my first
child , that continued through the childhoods of all three – that of secretly making and secretly distributing May Baskets.
The day before would find us baking little cookies or
brownies, and wandering out into meadows and down lanes, to collect forsythia
and our own tulips and the very beginnings of wild or left behind bushes and
tree blossomings, carefully helping each small child cut the stems, and place
them in the glass jar of water we brought with us.
Back at home, we would begin the construction phase, colored
sheets of paper spread across the floor, precut by myself until they grew
older, the body of the basket with snips up the sides, the handle, and the
stapler.
Each one would pick various colored baskets and handles ,
decorate them with markers or crayons,
and then bring them to me to staple together the sides and the handles.
Out would come the treats, as we carefully placed a few in
wax paper, twisted, and held. Flowers would be chosen, argued over, struggled
over, and carefully set in small plastic bags secured at the top.
Come morning, the excitement would build, as we would have
to rise early to fill the baskets, and the leave to sneak about, before school
or eventually homeschool, as each child chose where to stop and deliver their
baskets.
Initially, my oldest and I walked about our Montague
neighborhood, wiggling with suppressed
delight as he tip toed up each walk and placed the basket on the doorknob.
We had known this neighborhood for years, and he had made a
practice of visiting many of the homes on the small , crooked one-way street.
The bus garage next door with the friendly conversant
drivers. The garage owner who lived down from the garage and our own home, whose
donkey brayed awake the neighborhood each morning, and traditionally on
Halloween, would dress as an old , bent over man, mask on with bumpy face and
strange teeth, as he held out a plastic glove hand to children, all mushy and
filled with icewater!
The older couple who disliked people of other colors and
religions and sexual preferences but who invited him into their home to bake
with them and help mow the lawn.
Their next door neighbor, a friend of ours, who edited a
feminist separatist rag.
The middle school superintendent and his family at the end
of the street, who shared their Jewish traditions with him.
The older couple with many children who invited him to help
pick and eat their berries.
The mother of a brother-in-law, who always sat out a dusk on
her small front porch, as we made our evening walk round the block; the bats elegantly swinging through the trees
as the fog rose from the stream down at the bottom of the pastures.
On May Day morning, round we then would sneak, in the cool early morning, as he
placed baskets on one doorknob after
another, of all these friends of his, and quickly snuck away.
We would then leave time to drive by his grandparents, as I
hid in the car, and he snuck up to the front door, one time to have them come
out in confusion, as we raced away. And on to his Aunt, where her outside dog
would protest the quick arrival and departure, so early, as we left, wondering
if the dog would be the one to enjoy the delivery.
Myself, I was thinking about the history of May Day. Of
workers rights. Of traditions elsewhere . Of Maypoles and celebrations. Of infusing in my
children the excitement of giving to others when others knew not where the gift
came from. And it was true- they grew up loving the secret of it all.
Oh, we would sometimes make a big exhausting batch for their
classes or daycare, just for the fun of it, and possibly to remind the world of
an old and wonderful tradition.
When homeschooling later on, we would need to drive about to
deliver the now more elaborately decorated baskets, as we no longer lived
within walking distance of most.
But years later, at a
family funeral, we stopped by to say hello to Mrs. Newton, who had been our neighbor so long ago. She looked at us quizzically; cocked
her head, and said “YOU were the ones who left the beautiful May Baskets.
Because when you moved away, they stopped appearing. Oh, how I loved the
surprise of them- all hand made and lovely.”
And my oldest looked up at me, smiling, remembering the
making and the sneaking and the leaving and the giving in the early misted mornings
of May.
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