On the last day of April, we hurried home from school, changed from our school dresses to slacks and sweaters and piled into the car armed with empty jars, several pop bottles filled with water and a cardboard box the right size to keep them from tipping over in the trunk of the car. Mother drove to a familiar spot in the timber near the river where abundant wild flowers flourished in dappled sunlight.
We were reminded to never pick more than half the wild flowers we found in a patch. We must leave enough to provide seeds for next year’s flowers. We were to stay together and return to the car when we heard the horn blast three times. There were Sweet Williams, and great cushions of purple violets, to make colorful tiny bouquets or “nosegays” as our grandma called them. Sometimes we were rewarded with white, red, and even yellow, violets, Dutchman’s Breeches, bluebells – one of the few flowers that are truly a pure sky-blue – and the charming, dainty lilies-of-the-valley. Sometimes, if spring had had an early start, we would come across a clump of showy, orange columbine and gleefully add some to our collections.
When the car horn sounded, we rushed back, as usual, I half believing that Mother might leave without us if we were late. (This myth originated with my older sister who, knowing I was never quite sure if she was teasing or not, took perverse delight in worrying me.) The blossoms were placed in the glass jars and given enough water to keep them from wilting but not enough to easily slop over on the bumpy drive back through the timber. At home, the blooms were arranged in an assortment of small vases to be displayed and enjoyed on the kitchen table, the living room lamp-tables, and the window sill in the hallway alcove that housed the telephone.
After supper, the old wallpaper sample book came out, along with scissors, paste and Dad’s desk stapler, all dedicated to creating enough small paper baskets to be filled with popcorn, jellybeans and gumdrops, then at the last minute, the tiny bouquets of wildflowers and we set out to deliver them to our friends’ front doors. The process was meant to be anonymous, so we tried to sneak up to the door, hang the little basket on a doorknob, or if necessary, prop it against the doorjamb, ring the doorbell or knock urgently, then slip quickly away so as not to be seen and identified. I don’t remember being the recipient of many reciprocal May baskets, but that could be explained by the great care we took to not be discovered, and there was always plenty of popcorn, jellybeans and gumdrops left over to satisfy us. I didn’t realize that the tradition was well on its way to oblivion, even then.
That yearly tradition, I later discovered, was an ancient ritual where young girls honored their mothers, grandmothers, aunts and elderly neighbor women with gifts of flowers in spring. The decline of the practice is illustrated by a sad little episode many years ago when my daughter was four years old. We had been living in the country for several months and an adult niece was living nearby.
My sons had never been interested in giving May baskets when we lived in town (except for a couple brief cases of puppy-love) and I thought it might be nice to give my little girl a taste of that nearly forgotten ritual I had enjoyed, so we made a little basket, filled it with goodies and a few violets, and I sent her to deliver the gift to her older cousin’s front door. She was careful to avoid being seen and hid behind a lilac bush, grinning with excited anticipation. The cousin, having grown up on a farm and never knowing about the custom, opened her door but did not notice the basket. After another knock and quick retreat, the culprit was spotted and lectured severely for being a nuisance. Needless to say, my little girl came home in tears and I had to make a phone call to explain. The niece was apologetic and tried to make amends, but the damage was done.
My final experience with May Baskets was several years later when the young charmer from next door did it right and brought me a lovely little hand-made basket. I still have it.