May is such a joyous month for me. My gardens are brimming with new life. The perennial borders are a riot of color, towering hollyhocks, gray carpets of carnations, cerulean delphiniums, candelabras of foxglove, and everywhere columbine, the pastels of the little dove flower amidst the lacy foliage of love-in-a-mist. And my roses! Many of my antique roses are at their best. The scents from every corner of the garden are overwhelming.
I feel like a child again—that same quickening inside that I felt every May Day when I filled tiny baskets and cornucopias with flowers, hung them on my neighbors’ door knobs, rang the bell, and ran for my life. Crouched down amongst huge bushes of sweet smelling, old-fashioned geraniums I would peek out, heart pounding wildly, and watch as Mamam Braden, Goldie Pickering, and old Mrs. Downs found their baskets. (Perhaps some of the flowers in the baskets were from their own gardens!)
A simple gift of flowers filled me with joy—and I know now that my gift gave joy to some lonely neighbors. And today, spending time with people who tell me stories of their childhood, May Day always looms brightly in their memories. Their eyes light up while remembering May garlands, May poles, and secret May baskets left for friends and loved ones. And the question most often asked: “Whatever happened to May Day?”
I plan to find May Day again. This year, and every year hereafter, I will leave a May basket for someone who may be lonely and isolated. I want to feel that excited joy that made my heart pound as I crept up to doors and left my small gift of flowers.
Down among the meadow grass,
Searching it all over,
What a merry band are we,
Hunting four-leaf clover.
I know a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blooms burst with snow,
And down underneath is the loveliest nook
Where the four leaf clovers grow.
A clover, a clover of two,
Put in your right shoe,
The first young man you meet,
In field or lane or street,
You’ll have him or one of his name.