Post Scripts: One faraway May Day
Apr 27, 2011 | Opinion |
I read an article the other day that reminded me of May Day. I hadn’t heard about it for awhile, but it is coming up Sunday. May 1, as I read, was rooted in the ancient Celtic festival that celebrated the arrival of spring. It might have more holidays than any other day of the year – celebration of spring, political protests, pagan festival, Saints day, or organized labor. In some countries, it is a national holiday. I think our holiday started from the medieval England when people celebrated spring by gathering greenery and flowers from the countryside and delivering them to friends. Maypoles were decorated and children dancing around them, also originated in England.
It reminded me of a column I wrote a long time ago on a May Day celebration of my children. They made their own May baskets, filled them with wild flowers and distributed them to neighbors and friends. They knocked on the door and then ran to hide when the door was opened. I don’t know whether this tradition is still going on or not as we live in a community of old people, but I hope it hasn’t died.
If you’ll bear with me I’ll repeat the one I wrote in 1959:
On the night of May 1, I was detailed by our oldest daughter, Kathy Ann, to haul her and her buddy, Jan Richesson, on a May basket mission. I was busy in the garage with a project of my own and I wasn’t too pleased when I had to hold up my operation to play chauffeur for two little girls loaded down with wallpaper May baskets, loaded with flowers and candy.
Later I realized that I was a bit crabby about it and probably should have been pleased they were engaged in such a traditional and harmless pastime, and even more pleased they’d want me along at all.
It was supposed to be a secret, of course. So after we had driven within a half-block of the house where their friends lived, I would be told to stop the car, dim the lights and wait for them to return in semi-darkness.
I felt a little apprehensive about it. We were out in the extreme southeast part of town in a sparsely settled area. There I was sitting in the station wagon with the parking lights on, It was not long until cars began passing by.
Every occupant of every car subjected me to close inspection. Everybody in Gallatin knows the editor’s car. I stirred uneasily in the seat with every glance, giving each passerby a little wave of the hand and, as I recall, a rather weak smile. Once or twice I thought I should say something, so I’d call out weakly: “Delivering May baskets.” It was those silent suspicious stares that got me.
For the record I want it made clear that all I was doing was helping two little bundles of energy with the time-honored custom of presenting May baskets to special friends. All I was cuddling on that secluded road was a strong desire to get the heck home. Honest! That’s how rumors get started!
