May Baskets
“At last came the golden month of the wild folk-- honey-sweet May, when the birds come back, and the flowers come out, and the air is full of the sunrise scents and songs of the dawning year.” Samuel Scoville, Jr.
Early one crisp November morning my mother dressed me in thick 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 be needing this to keep your head and ears warm.”
I slipped the cap over my head and ears. “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!”
“You’re right. They’re not at all pretty. But they’re not dead; they’re just sleeping until spring.”
“And all the bulbs 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 as did the warmth of the sun’s rays. Once more my breaths were invisible, and the birds returned to Mother’s garden.
Then one day in late April I strolled past the garden. “Mother! Mother!” I hollered. Hurry!” Mother came running.
"Sara, what is it? Are you alright?"
"I’m fine. But it's the flowers, Mother. They have buds! I can see some pink poking through the ground!"
“Perfect!” She skittered around her garden. “They’ll be ready at just the right time.”
A few days later, the flowers that had been tight buds began to open and had a deeper blush of pink. I stretched out my fingers to touch the silky pink petals; they were cooler than I’d expected and much smoother too. I laid my head to the ground and tried willing them to open faster.
“Mother Nature has its way, its timing,” Mother assured me. “And She’s not ready yet. But a few more days of warmth, 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 out to the car.
Mother loaded up the family station wagon then turned toward me. “To make May Baskets, of course.”
“May Baskets? What are May Baskets?”
“They are small baskets usually 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 and gleamed. “So when we get home, we’ll cut the flowers that are blooming in the garden to make May Baskets. Then tomorrow, May 1st, we’ll get up bright and early and deliver them to our neighbors. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“But…but…I waited all winter for the flowers to bloom, and they’re so beautiful. And…and…I thought we were keeping them forever.” My face tightened, and I bit my lower lip. “Instead, we’re taking the flowers out of the garden and giving them away AND not telling our neighbors?”
“I know you’re disappointed, Sweetie, but flowers—like kindness—were made to 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.”
“I know you do, Sweetie. But in the end you’ll understand that every drop of kindness you give away returns to bless you in another way. Just 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 colored ribbon; wrapped it in tissue paper; then placed each one in the refrigerator to stay fresh overnight.
“Before you go to bed tonight, I need you to write this message on the note cards. ‘A May Day Basket is a welcome spring treat. Someone thinks you’re special and so sweet’.” Mother handed me a stack of her tiny note cards. “Once you’ve written the notes, I’ll tie them to the baskets. Remember to use your best handwriting.” Afterwards, I headed to bed, reluctantly drifting off to sleep and dreaming about the flowers I’d miss.
Shortly after dawn the next morning, Mother woke me singing, “It’s May! It’s May! The lovely month of May!” She flipped off my covers. “It’s May! It’s May! No longer in bed can you stay. 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 hide behind shrubs where Mother handed me a basket. I’d run to the front door; leave the basket on the porch; then ring the doorbell, giggling as I ran for cover. We’d hunker behind the shrubs and watch our neighbor’s as they looked up and down the street wondering just who’d left the May basket at their doorstep.
Mother was right, of course. I was having fun secretly spreading joy and kindness throughout the neighborhood. And I am grateful to this day for the simple yet powerful lesson she taught me that spring—that kindness and giving are their own reward.
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