My mother was a sucker for holidays—especially the overlooked ones. Because of her, I know that St. Nicholas Day is on December 6 and Flag Day is on June 14. Because of her, I can’t get through April 1 without playing at least one harmless prank on somebody I love. Because of her, the first thing I do every second day of February is turn on the television to see whether or not Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow. Because of her, I still get up early every single May Day and check my front porch.
Of all the neglected holidays, May Day was my favorite. We’d spend the night before weaving together small paper baskets, filling them with pastel-wrapped candies left over from Easter. The next morning, we’d wake up early, and as a special treat, Mom would let me have a cup of coffee—more hazelnut cream than anything else. Still, the warmth and the bitter aftertaste and the birds chirping outside the opened window turned the tradition into something magical.
When we finished our coffee, we’d race up the block, hanging the baskets on our neighbors’ doors before the sun could make its full appearance over the horizon. Mom would start on one side of the street. I’d start on the other. Until every doorknob on our block had a special treat waiting for its owner. I remember every single May Day since I was five. They are catalogued inside my memories, tucked away in a file marked with a smiley face.
But there is one in particular that I remember more clearly than all the others. And that was in third grade. Spring came early that year. The leaves had long since budded and the once-barren branches overflowed with green. Flowers had grown up from the ground. The world had come back to life. Dad tracked bits of freshly mowed grass into the kitchen while Mom and I wove baskets in the dining room. Anticipation and excitement kept me up late. I spent at least an hour lying in bed, hands folded behind my head, eyes squeezed tight, as if slumber might be more willing to take me if I wasn’t looking. When my mom poked her head into my room the next morning, I sprang out of bed like an overeager jack-in-the-box.
Mom held her finger by her lips because Dad was still sleeping. She grabbed my hand and whispered, “You have to see this.”
She led me through the hallway, into the kitchen, where the coffee was brewing, and out onto the back porch. My mouth fell open and the tiniest of gasps tumbled out. A fresh blanket of snow covered the very grass Dad had just mowed. The whiteness clung to the green leaves on our pear tree. A fascinating contradiction.
I looked at my mom, my eyes wide with wonder. Of course, we saw snow all the time. We lived in the Midwest. Snow and I were not only well acquainted, we were good friends. I just wasn’t used to seeing it in May. We stood there, hand in hand, looking at our backyard, and for the life of me, I couldn’t tell if the green poking up through the whiteness was beautiful or disconcerting.
“I don’t like it,” I finally said.
“No?”
I shook my head.
“Why not?”
“Winter is supposed to be over.”
Mom squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It won’t last.”
She was right. By the time we drank our coffee and gathered our baskets and raced up and down the block, the snow was already starting to melt.