"It's May! It's May! The lovely month of May!"

MAY BASKETS by Sara Etgen-Baker

One crisp November morning my mother dressed me in heavy corduroy slacks; wrapped me in my father’s flannel shirt; then stuffed me into her bulky sweater.  “Here,” she handed me my slouchy-knit, oversized beanie cap, “you’ll need this to keep your head and ears warm.”

I slipped the cap over my head.  “Now come outside with me.”  Once outside she handed me a brown paper sack whose contents smelled like wet dirt.  “We need to plant bulbs before the first hard freeze.”  I knelt on the ground next to mother and breathed in the soft scent of the dewy morning grass and the earthy smell of freshly turned over soil.  

“I’ve already dug the holes.  So take each bulb from the bag; drop it in the hole; and then gently push the dirt back into the hole covering the bulb—like so.”  

I opened the sack.  “These bulbs are ugly and look dead, mother!”

“Yes, they’re not at all pretty, but they’re not dead; they’re just sleeping until spring.”

 “And they all look alike.”  I continued covering the bulbs squishing the wet dirt between my fingers.  “How do we know what they’ll look like come spring?”  

 “We won’t know for sure until spring, but that’s the joy of gardening.  We’ll just have to be patient.”  

  Soon after planting the bulbs, the autumn winds arrived shaking the leaves off the trees.  The days shortened, and the nights closed in chilly and long.  By December, the snow and harsh sleet came and the birds disappeared from mother’s garden.  I often stood on the back porch and watched my warm breath mingle with the icy cold air wondering if the bulbs in her garden would come alive in spring.  In January and February sunless, harsh days prevailed; and winter’s dreariness settled over me.  Although mother’s garden was frozen and bare, all winter long I clung to the hope that the flowers would one day bloom.  Eventually winter’s harsh sleet became rain, and sunshine drenched the earth once again.  But without the gentle spring heat nothing grew in mother’s garden—not even the weeds. Then March arrived bringing the sun’s warm rays.  Once more my breaths were invisible, and the birds and butterflies returned to mother’s garden.  

Then one day in late April I strolled past the garden.  “Mother!”  I hollered.  “Hurry!” 

"Sara, what is it?  Are you alright?"

 "I’m fine.  But it's the flowers, Mother.  Purple petals are poking through the ground!"    

   

“Perfect!  They’ll be ready at just the right time.” 

A few days later, the flowers that had been tight buds began opening, revealing a deeper purplish-blue. I stretched out my fingers to touch the silky soft petals; they were cooler than I’d expected and smoother too. I laid my head to the ground and tried willing them to open faster. 

 

 “Mother Nature has its way,” mother assured me.  “And She’s not ready yet. But a few more warm days, and the flowers will bloom.  Just wait.  We need to be ready, though.”

So a few days later mother took me to the local five and dime store where she gathered up tissue paper, assorted colored ribbons, note cards, and all the discounted Easter baskets she could put into her shopping cart.  “Okay, now we’re ready.”  Mother gathered up her purchases and scurried out the door.  

 “Ready for what?”  I grabbed a handful of the baskets and followed her outside.

Mother loaded up the station wagon then turned toward me.  “To make May Baskets, of course.”    

  

“May Baskets?  What are May Baskets?”  

“They are small baskets filled with fresh flowers and secretly left at someone's doorstep. The giver leaves the basket on the porch, rings the doorbell, and runs away.”   Her eyes sparkled.  “So when we get home, we’ll cut the flowers in the garden and make May Baskets.  Then tomorrow, we’ll rise early and deliver them to our neighbors.  Doesn’t that sound like fun?”  

“But…but…I waited all winter for the beautiful flowers to bloom.  And…and…I thought we’d keep them forever.”  My face tightened, and I bit my lower lip.  “Instead, we’re taking them from the garden and giving them away AND not telling our neighbors?”

“I know you’re disappointed, Sweetie, but flowers—like kindness—must be shared.  Their beauty is not ours to keep. You understand?” 

“No!”  I tilted my head down and frowned.  “I don’t understand.  I want to keep the flowers…forever.”

“Sure you do, Sweetie.   But in the end you’ll understand.  Every drop of kindness you give away returns to bless you in another way.  Wait and see.”

So later that afternoon, we snipped most of the flowers from mother’s garden and arranged colorful bouquets.  We tied each bouquet together with ribbon; wrapped it in tissue paper; and placed each one in the refrigerator to stay fresh overnight.  

“Before you going to bed, you’ll need to write this message on the note cards.  ‘A May Day Basket is a welcome spring treat.  Someone thinks you’re special and sweet’.  And remember to use your best handwriting.”   Afterwards, I headed to bed fitfully falling asleep.   

  

Shortly after dawn the next morning, mother woke me singing, “It’s May!  It’s May!  The lovely month of May!”  She flipped my covers off me.  “It’s May!  It’s May!  Time to deliver the bouquets!”   

Still blurry-eyed, I helped mother as she loaded the bouquets into my brother’s wagon.  Then we began our journey through the neighborhood.  At each house, we’d hide behind shrubs.  I’d grab a basket; run to the front door; leave the basket on the porch; and then ring the doorbell, giggling as I ran for cover behind the shrubs.  We’d watch our neighbor’s as they looked up and down the street for who’d left the May basket at their doorstep.

Mother was right, of course.  I was having fun secretly delivering May Baskets throughout the neighborhood.  And at some level I understood the life lesson she was trying to teach me—kindness and giving are their own reward.