MAY BASKETS
Early one crisp November morning Mother dressed me in thick corduroy slacks; wrapped me in Dad’s flannel shirt; and stuffed me into her bulky sweater. “Here,” she handed me my slouchy-knit, oversized beanie cap, “you’ll be needin’ this to keep your head and ears warm. Come outside with me.”
I slipped the cap over my head and ears and followed her outside; Mother handed me a brown paper sack whose contents smelled like wet dirt. “We must plant these before the first hard freeze.” She stooped down on the ground; I knelt next to her, breathing in the soft scent of the dewy morning grass and the earthy smell of freshly turned over soil.
“I already dug the holes. So, you’ll take each bulb from the bag; drop it in the hole; and gently push the dirt back into the hole covering the bulb.”
I peered inside the bag. “These bulbs are ugly and look dead!”
“They’re not pretty, but they’re not dead. They’re sleeping until spring.”
“And all the bulbs look alike.” I covered the bulbs, squishing moist 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 just have to be patient and trusting.”
Within a few days of planting the bulbs, the autumn winds arrived, shaking the leaves off the trees. The days shortened; the nights closed in chilly and long. By December, the snow and harsh sleet came, and the birds disappeared from Mother’s flower garden. I often stood on the back porch and watched my warm breath mingle with the icy cold air, wondering if the bulbs we planted 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.
One day in late April while strolling past the garden, I saw what I thought were tiny flowers. “Mother! Come quick!” I hollered through the open kitchen window. Come outside. Hurry!”
Mother scrambled through the kitchen, flinging open the back door and rushing towards me.
"Sara, what is it? Are you alright?" she asked breathlessly.
"I’m fine. But it's the flowers, Mother. Look! I can see some pink buds poking through the ground!"
Mother bent over, eyeing my discovery. “Perfect!” 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, touching the silky pink petals; they were cooler and smoother than I’d expected. I laid my head to the ground and tried willing them to open faster.
“God has his own way and his own timing. You can’t rush Him. But a few more days of warmth, and the flowers will bloom. Just wait. Trust and be patient. We need to be prepared, though.”
The following week, 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.” She gathered up her purchases and scurried toward our station wagon.
“Ready for what?” I grabbed a handful of the baskets and followed her out to the car.
“Tomorrow is May 1st. Time for May baskets,” she said in a thrilled voice.
“May Baskets? What are May Baskets?”
“They’re 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. It’s a May tradition,” she said, her blue eyes sparling and gleaming with joy and excitement. “So, when we get home, we’ll cut the flowers that are blooming and fashion our own May Baskets. Tomorrow we’ll get up bright and early and deliver them to our neighbors. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“But…but…” A sob caught in my throat. “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 meant 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.”
Later that afternoon, we snipped most of the flowers from Mother’s garden, carefully arranging colorful bouquets. We tied each bouquet together with the assorted ribbon; wrapped it in tissue paper; then placed each one in the refrigerator to stay fresh overnight.
Before going to bed, Mother handed me the notecards she’d purchased. “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. After you write the notes, I’ll tie them to the baskets. Remember. Use your best handwriting.”
“Okay, Mother, I will,” I said dishearteningly. Afterwards, I headed to bed, fitfully drifting off to sleep thinking about the flowers I’d miss from Mother’s garden.
The next morning, Mother woke me singing, “It’s May! It’s May! The lovely month of May!” She flipped off my bedcovers. “It’s May! It’s May! No longer in bed can you stay. It’s May! It’s May! Time to deliver the bouquets!”
“But Mom, I don’t want to want to….” I groaned.
“Oh, pshaw! I’m not letting you ruin May Day. No, ma’am! I’ll be waiting for you in the kitchen.”
Still blurry-eyed, I rolled out of bed; dressed, and made my way to the kitchen, where I begrudgingly helped Mother place the bouquets in the baskets. We loaded them into my brother’s wagon and trekked through the neighborhood, stopping at each house. We hid behind our neighbor’s shrubs; Mother handed me a basket. I ran to our neighbor’s front door, left the basket on the porch, rang the doorbell, and ran for cover giggling the whole way. We hunkered behind the shrubs, watching our neighbors open their doors and look 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 our neighborhood. And I am grateful not just for the memory of that lovely day in May but also for Mother and the simple yet powerful lesson she taught me that spring: Kindness and giving are their own reward.
This memoir vignette was published in Good Old Days Magazine, May/June 2023
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