A May Day Mission

I grew up in a small town.  Some of my best memories, the experiences that made me who I am today, happened there.  We rode bicycles to the public pool—across the railroad tracks—and were trusted to be home before the streetlights came on.  Shoes in the summer were optional, and my feet were almost permanently stained by the mulberries I’d squished while running barefoot in the yard playing tag.  I still remember the smell of the carry-out fried chicken place and getting Mr. Misties at the Dairy Queen that only sold ice cream and frozen treats, never hamburgers or fries.  And summer nights…those were filled with heaviness of humidity, the smell of cap-guns and Deep Woods Off, and the twinkling of Lightening Bugs which guided our sweaty, sunburned bodies home.

I channel these memories in raising my own children.  And I recall with fondness my parents’ friends considering them guides in how I influence the lives of my boys and their friends.  Although the kids are growing up with technology at their fingertips, in an era where entertainment is on a constant algorithmically enhanced loop feeding dopamine into their systems, it is my goal to raise and influence future adults who value simplicity.  People who look back on growing up—as I do—and think:  I had the best childhood.  Afterall, someone bought the caps for the cap guns, left the Off where we could find it, and flipped the porch lights on when it got dark.  It is my mission:  if my children and their friends can have half of the wonderful childhood that I enjoyed, my grandchildren’s lives, and my friend’s grandchildren’s lives—a whole new generation of kids–will be that much better for it.  It’s a project that I hope will pay dividends in about thirty years or so.

It is this duty that commands we celebrate May Day.  My entire town—all 2,000 of us!–did May Day when I was a kid.  It happened every year on May 1.  Kids would make paper cones out of old wallpaper samples or use old milk cartons and strawberry pint-containers—often as a class project at school or in Sunday School–and fill them with flowers, treats, or toys and deliver them to the homes of their friends.  I remember cutting irises from my mom’s garden and getting lilacs—with permission–from the neighbors.  The best part about delivering May Baskets is that the idea was to ring the bell, leave the basket, and run away before the owner of the home could “catch” you.  If caught, there was to be a kiss exchanged!

We did May Baskets every year.  Sometimes receiving 10-12 and always giving away more than that.  I loved it:  the craftiness of making the baskets, my mom driving the “get away car,” and having permission to be sneaky by running away after ringing the doorbell.  Occasionally getting teased into a good-natured peck from a boy (with our moms looking on and laughing about it).  I grew up thinking everyone exchanged May Baskets!  It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized—like Coors Light and tomato juice—May Day was a kind of tradition that survived strongly, but only very locally, in the little corner of the world where my childhood unfolded.  May Baskets?  What?  Red Beer?  Never heard of it.

Today, my kids call ringing-and-running “Ding-Dong Ditch,” and the thrill of it has largely been ruined by—much like Caller ID ruined prank calls–the ever-present Ring Doorbells or ADT security cameras in our neighborhood.  I’ve never told my boys about the kissing part of the tradition, but they do love ringing and running back to our golf cart which serves as the “get away” vehicle.  I’m not much of a green thumb and the suburban vermin-deer eat all our flowers, but Publix usually has “3 Bouquets for $12” in the springtime, and Amazon Prime will deliver a case of Rice Krispie Treats for $20.

A Google search will describe May Day as a forgotten tradition.   A syndicated newspaper columnist wrote in 1963, “Remember May Basket Day?”  Its origins are varied, depending on the source.  May Day has been linked to European cultures, Pagan traditions, Socialism and Pro-Labor movements, and described as an agricultural ritual designed to usher in a fruitful spring planting.   Although many sources will also claim that May Poles never really were included in the American celebrations of May Day, I will tell you that the Freshman Girls’ Choir (including yours truly in 1993) always donned white dresses and danced with ribbons around an erect wooden pole every year at Spring Fling.   It was the only kind of pole dancing that would ever be allowed in my hometown, but it shouldn’t take a degree in symbolism to understand its role in the Fertility Rite of Spring.

May Day is not a lost tradition at my house.  It is not a lost tradition in our neighborhood, even though we live about a thousand miles from the town I grew up in.  Every time I read an article that describes May Day as a quaint practice of days gone by, I get a thrill from keeping it alive.  After over a decade of making a delivering baskets, last May Day, my children received three.   Take that, Universe!  Forgotten tradition, my pole-dancing arse!  Maybe this year, we’ll get four.  We’ll happily deliver at least twenty.  And the kids receiving them—who have always received them from us–will grow up knowing that simple traditions are the best kind.  Believing that the promise of spring renewal can be found by opening the front door to a surprise basket of flowers.

The nicest compliment I ever received was from a friend who shared that her children’s lives were much richer because they knew someone like me.  I will buy the Off, I will leave glow-sticks out for night-time-tag, I will help catch Lightning Bugs.  I will make and deliver May Baskets to your children.

And someday, when my grandkids get a May Day Basket, all will have worked according to plan.