May Day – and Looking Back – and Ahead
A tradition past.
We were so young, that May Day eve. All of life was ahead of us, and we lived happily and obliviously, because we were kids. Sure, we had our scraps and frustrations with siblings and with life. Yet, we were safe and loved, and we enjoyed life.
It’s been 58 years since my sister and I walked home from Yoder School on a spring afternoon. Rachel told me the story Miss Schrock told them about the May Day tradition in Europe.
That afternoon, we walked down the sidewalk of town, turned left and meandered along the pasture and down the little hill of our lane. Up ahead was the big hill that was the last stretch before we arrived home. I can take you to the place on the dirt lane we were walking when Rachel told me about May day, for it was there I exclaimed, “We can do that!”
And we did. That evening, we asked Ida Marie to drive us to the woods along the Casselman River to pick wild flowers: blue bells, marsh marigolds, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, wild geraniums, wild ginseng, and others. We delivered four baskets to our school, one for each teacher.
A tradition was born. Every year after, we traipsed to the woods, picked wild flowers, put them into “baskets”, and delivered them to uncles and aunts in the area.
The years go by
We grew up – and some of us moved away. The tradition continued for fifty years. Time moved on. The flowers bloom every spring in the same spots along the winding river. We no longer gather flowers, but the memory remains. The lane remains shaded by trees and the big hill doesn’t seem as high as when we were kids.
We’re older now – we think of health concerns while enjoying the memories. We still enjoy flowers even though those days are past. Hikes out the lane to pick hickory nuts from the pasture have stopped, but the lane still signifies the way home.
Now, instead of gathering wild flowers, we visit doctors and hear unhappy diagnoses. Spring comes and flowers bloom as we wait to hear the results of the latest CAT and PET scans.
The wintery year
It has been a harder year, but spring is here. As I hold a new grandchild, I am reminded that life continues. There is sweetness in the hard. I hold my new babies and delight in their innocence and smiles. I call a sister who wishes life were different, and life again is hard.
When we were kids, our mama expected us to do things even when if they were hard. When we complained, “But I don’t know how!” she’d reply, “Du laghnst nimmie yiunga.” [You won’t learn it any younger.] She was right. Some things you only learn when you are older.
Sometimes she said, “You can do this,” so we did.
I’m thinking of that May Day eve when I said to my sister, “We can do this!” and started a tradition that lasted fifty years.
A different road
Today, we’re walking a different lane. It is not an easy road, but God is faithful. In the hardness, I know we can do this, and we will.
Our May Day basket tradition left its mark on our community. The flowers brought smiles to older folks who could no longer go to the woods. A new widow’s day was brightened when she opened her kitchen door in the morning and found the basket of flowers, damp from morning dew. Our school teachers, now retired, smiled on the first day of May each year when the baskets appeared again. We’ll probably be remembered as those Miller Girls who brought May baskets.
Fifty-eight years after those first May baskets, we remember how spry we were when we ran nimbly down country lanes to put baskets on door handles. We shushed farm dogs by feeding them stale Christmas cookies from Mama’s freezer. We whispered and giggled our way from house to house, sometimes delivering over fifty baskets in an evening.
Now in our seventies, we want to be remembered as women who grew up as siblings and remained friends. We want to be remembered as women who trusted God when life was not fair. Most of all, I hope we will be remembered as sisters who said, “We can do this.” – and did it.
Today, those traditions are wonderful memories we cherish. Yet, today, what matters most is our faith in the last miles of the journey. The lane dips and turns, and up ahead is the largest climb before that last stretch to home. We’re sisters who are saying, “We can do this.”
One day, we’ll be remembered, not just for May baskets, but as sisters who helped walk each other Home.
Photo credit: Rachel N. Miller
If you’re interested, you can read more about our May Day story in these blog posts:
