It's May Day, and more than any other holiday, this is the one where I miss my folks the most. Odd, I know.
When I left for college in 1973, that first May Day I called my Dad. He was a pediatrician with a busy practice, so I had to leave a message with his nurse Sharon. It was probably something like this: Hey Dad, it's May Day. Can you get Mom some flowers? What happened is that he forgot until he was almost home, and instead of going to a flower shop he parked down the street, snuck into the yard, picked a few branches of whatever was blooming, put them on the porch, rang the doorbell and then dashed back down to get his car.
For more than 40 years we continued this tradition.
While he was still working, I'd call either call him the night before, or during the day, remind him it was May Day, and he'd figure out a way to pick some flowers from the yard and do the 'ring & run' thing. If I called the night before, I'd say "This is your annual reminder that tomorrow is May Day." He'd reply, "I'm just fine, and how are you!?" (That way, Mom was none the wiser ... wink wink.) If I called the office, Nurse Sharon was almost always in on the gig - I knew if I left the message with her, she'd make sure Dad remembered. Mom would get her bouquet, just like always.
There were years of lilacs stolen from a neighbor's bush, almost always a stray dandelion or two, maybe a rhododendron blossom and whatever else he could find.
He'd park down the street, pick something, ring the doorbell, hide, and Mom would open the door to her flowers. Every year, the same thing, and she'd laugh and say, "Well, I wonder who could have done such a nice thing!" Even though I wasn't home, I knew the routine.
As the years ensued, so did a lot of hilarity. As he got older, it became harder for Dad to place the flowers, ring the bell, and do his mad dash to hide. I'd always hear 'this year's story' from Mom - she'd embellish his attempts to hide and she'd describe what a lovely bouquet someone had left for her. For the last few years, he'd just stand on the porch, ring the bell, and hand Mom her bouquet. And then they'd both laugh at the predicament of getting old.
When Mom passed away at age 89, Dad and I would continue the May Day tradition, although instead of flowers we'd talk on the phone about all the years of hijinks. They were conversations that I cherished. Still do.
When Dad passed away in 2014, that first May Day was So. Hard. I think harder than any other holiday. As I said at the beginning here ... Odd. I know.
These days, every May Day I sit outside, enjoy spring flowers, and think about how May Day was our thing - and how very glad I am that it was. And still is. Happy May Day, Pops.
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