JOH ALONG THE WAY: MAY DAY EVOKES MONTAGE OF MEMORIES

Although I'm not quite through with April, May Day is upon us real soon now.

May is a montage of happy memories and a looking forward to the joys of the gentler season.

Way back, Mama taught us how to make a May basket out of paper. She cut a large fan-shaped piece from a study brown sack that had once held something from the grocery store. This was rolled into a cone shape and the sides were fastened together with flour paste. The handle could be a piece of ribbon if we had any or just a twine string, poked through the top sides of the opening and tied. Sometimes we made crayon flowers before rolling the cone, or flower pictures from the seed catalog were pasted on. These paper baskets didn't hold water, of course, nor anything damp.

"What are they for, Mama?" we asked.

"You fill them with wildflowers and, on the first day of May, hang them, secretly, on the doorknobs of friends, those you like and admire, or just anyone."

Our neighbors on both sides were more than a mile away. If we put the flowers into the dry baskets at home, they looked like only wilting weeds by the time we walked anywhere. Too, it was hard to do it in secret because someone would be out milking, feeding the chickens, etc., and would see us coming. But we did it anyway.

We learned to pick the flowers along the way and there were plenty of them, mostly wild sweet Williams and violets. We knew where the yellow blooming wild mustard grew, the bloodroot, Dutchman's Breeches and sometimes we would find an early blooming wild columbine.

Later, my May Days were always intertwined with my friend, Thomza, like a filigreed day of azaleas, sunshine, walking through meadows, petting cows and scaring up rabbits.

Still later and ongoing my May Days are marked by a lovely May Day basket being hung on my front doorknob (full circle?). Each year the container is different, a far cry from the paper cones of yore. Last year it was an empty coconut shell with a hole cut in the top to insert the fresh flowers, perky from having their stems embedded in water-soaked Styrofoam. The year before it was a miniature watering can. I have caught sight of the flying skirts of those who hang the baskets, but have never perched myself on the porch to catch them. That would, somehow, destroy the whole sweetness of the custom.

As I said, I'm not quite through with April. There are yet some flower pots to fill and other containers. This year I am trying something new. All the petunias will be red except for one pot which I will fill with purple ones. They are the fragrant ones. I wonder why? I will hang it close to my swing.

Wave at me as you pass by, seeing me working with the petunias, snapping off spent blossoms. I may wave whether or not you see me, for I can no longer see who is passing by, but I reach out with love and friendship for all.

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.