People don’t celebrate May Day anymore — at least not the floral holiday that occurs on May 1st. The international workers’ day celebrated in many countries, yes. But I’m talking about May Day baskets delivered on doorsteps.
Some elementary school teacher started me on the holiday years and years and how many years ago. I think the holiday was fading even then, but the teacher told us the lore anyhow, about how May 1st was a day when one made May baskets and filled them with flowers, and then left them on someone’s porch. Even in first grade, I got the impression that it was supposed to be a heterosexual flirtation ritual — probably because of the part where you’re supposed to kiss the giver if you caught them delivering the basket. And we didn’t have anything but heterosexual flirtations back then because it was the Sixties.
I delivered May baskets in my 20s. I made a list, mostly male, of people I wouldn’t mind flirting with. And, strangely, I gave them a fighting chance not to catch me. It seems odd now that I would try not to get caught if I were flirting with them, but that’s the way the holiday works. I had some close escapes, including throwing myself over the railing of a fire escape to avoid being caught.
I have not delivered May baskets in years, even before I got married (and that was 19 years ago). I’ve gotten too busy, and don’t have a good block of time to mastermind a basket for my husband. When am I going to make the basket with him underfoot? How am I going to bake cookies? The tradition has died with me.
Words Like Me 