I tend to be a bit of a sentimental fool sometimes.
May 1st is one of those times.
When I was little, we lived inside the city limits of my hometown. Years later we would move a couple miles out, which was amazing in its own right.
But I still remember some of the things from when I was small and lived in a home not far from my grandparents.
My Grandma had a tradition on May 1st – May Day. It may have been a silly or made-up thing she did for us. It may very well have been something her extended Irish family did when she was a kid. I never knew and wasn’t savvy enough at the ages 4-8 to ask.
My Grandma would take a little cup, be it styrofoam or a paper or a bigger container or whatever and she’d decorate it. She’d take pipe cleaners of varying colors and weave it along the top. curving, making the little cups, generally made for drinks, into May baskets. Often she’d make treats and mix in small candy or anything else she could think of and pack them into a little box. She’d take the box, put it in the rear of her Buick that she drove and visit the cousins, whose houses were closest . . . and then come to our house.
She liked to play games and taunt us, my grandma, int the most fun and sincere way. She’d put the cups on the front stoop (having called my mother in advance, I am sure) and then ring the doorbell.
Grandma’s game was that after she rang the doorbell she’d pretend to run away. Her tradition was that we had to catch her and give her a kiss. “That’s the rule. You can’t break a May Day rule!” she’d tell us in feigned sincerity.
It never failed.
We’d see her bending down to place the cups and we’d race out the front door, giggling, and chase her down the sidewalk. She never really ever got past the black lamp post on the front yard and we’d grab her leg, as we probably only got about halfway up her leg in height at that point anyway.
“You have to give me a kiss,” she’d always tell us. We, of course, would oblige. After all, you can’t break a May Day rule.
My grandma wasn’t able to drive much after that. Macular degeneration took a good portion of her eyesight and legally she just couldn’t drive.
But she never forgot May Day. She still delivered them. She would later tell us “you have to do this, give them to pretty girls you like and then run from them until they catch and kiss you!”
“Ewwww!” is what we likely responded.
Years later, though, as girls held more sway than games I remembered my grandma’s tradition. I gave dates May baskets. None really knew the tradition, which was no surprise. Even fewer actually saw how sweet it was. Those dates and relationships…they never panned out to much.
I have kept it up here and there. I haven’t made the baskets, but I tended to give cookies or treats or bake for my loved ones and friends on May Day. I got cookies for friends for May 1st this year.
Few understood the tradition but all accepted the treats.
In the end, maybe my Grandma was right. It very well may not be the tradition itself. It might just be knowing when to slow down and let the right person catch you.
I received an email the other day from a woman whose daughter goes to school with my Hannah. I don’t want to share intimate details or anything like that, but she’s read my blog and talked about grief and dealing with losing someone you love, something that their family is dealing with now. It’s never something you think you will have to deal with until it comes and then . . . well . . . everyone handles it differently, in their own way. I shut down, for a good long while, and while I functioned, getting up in the morning – in the first days, simply standing up from the couch because I couldn’t bring myself to go to bed – I couldn’t tell you too many decisions that I made in those first horrific days after.
There are a few things that I can tell you happened. In those first hours, days, weeks even, you have certain people that you absolutely want and need to talk with. My sister-in-law; my father, of course; Andrea’s best friend (and now one of mine, even after the years passing since we went to high school together); one of my dearest friends from Dallas who I’ve adopted as my baby sister, even though she’s not much younger than me; those are the people whose emotions and tears helped me to wallow and understand that I was feeling so much pain and it was OK to let it hurt for awhile. But there were the others, people who I know wanted to speak or talk and I couldn’t. In the wake of losing someone you just cannot take the time to talk to everyone. It isn’t easy. It’s horrible, in fact. Some are sincere and longing to help you and it’s an amazing thing to see, but you cannot bear to deal even with them. There are others that are so hurt themselves they call you because they simply want youto make themfeel better.
The thing about all those days is the fact that you already feel the pain and emotion and angst every second of the day, and for me it was every second of about 3 or 4 straight days with no sleep. I couldn’t. Every person that called wanted to know what happened, how it happened, how I was, what the kids said, how they’re handling it, all of that. Every call took me back into that hospital and carried me into the room and made me hear her ribs crack, the doctor tell me to make a decision and the world turn black all over again. At a certain point I quit answering the phone.
But here’s the memory this email a few paragraphs up sparked. The day Andrea died our parish pastor, a Monsignor in the Catholic church took the time to come straight to my house. He runs our parish. He isn’t a man with a few things on his plate, he is insanely busy, hard working, intense, and he took the time to come over to our house, just to make sure we were OK. With him was the principal of our school. She looked as distraught as the rest of us, and she’d only been principal for that year, if I’m remembering correctly and here she was dealing the the loss of 3 students’ parent. She brought stacks and stacks of sympathy cards, all homemade by the students, in every grade. Andrea, you see, had volunteered at the school and had talked with nearly every grade. They’d have made the cards anyway, but so many already knew my wife it was almost heartbreakingly lovely to see the thoughts poured out on construction paper and crayon.
The biggest two things, though, and this really did make me – a pseudo-strong, bullheaded, stubborn Midwestern man – cry. Hannah had just gone back to school as did the rest of the kids. So much time had passed that I had missed a tuition payment or more. I went to the school and they informed me “oh, your tuition is paid through the rest of the year.” I couldn’t fathom how, thinking they’d forgone it, which the parish couldn’t afford, or that some scholarship had come through. I knew we were in trouble, I’d lost Andrea’s income. At this point I’d also been told that my salary was being cut by more than 1/3. I must have looked totally perplexed because the principal came out and said “I was told to tell you your tuition was paid by your graduating class of St. Mary’s High School.” My class. Some of these people I’d not spoken with in years, maybe some since high school itself, but our story was passed to them, and it was paid. I walked out in silence, totally thankful and totally bowled over by the kindness.
That same week, Hannah came home, excited, happy, and tearful like I hadn’t seen her in that first few weeks. Her class had been working on a project that whole time we were out. The class had been studying Japanese culture and in particular the story of Sadako Sasaki. This little girl had been exposed to radiation from the dropping of the Hiroshima bomb. She started working on her own project – the Japanese tradition of making 1,000 paper origami cranes in the hopes it would grant her wish. She never finished it, but her friends completed the task and put them in her grave with her. The class, studying that tradition, had started the origami thinking they would give them to a family or a shelter for someone who needed their spirits lifted. The kids were in the middle of the project when Andrea died. It was the kids who came to their teacher and said they wanted to finish the task as quickly as they could and give the cranes . . . to us.
So here’s the thing. When Hannah came home she had a big, clear tube, decorated dazzlingly beautiful as only 6th graders could do, with a thousand beautifully colored and neatly folded cranes. They also made a portrait, stringing the cranes together to make a picture with hope, love, grace, all those amazing words in them. The day Hannah brought those cranes home, I can honestly say I was at my lowest. I had lost my wife, was losing my home, was losing my job, more or less, and I saw no hope. Even my Mom, a woman with a strong faith found herself looking at the sky saying “I know you probably have a plan, but how much more can he take, really?” We took the story they sent with the cranes, and in the skeptical fashion only my depression could have mustered said “what can it hurt, really?”
We made our wish. It wasn’t something impossible or supernatural. “Please help us find a home and a way for us to stay here.” That was it. With the salary I was about to have we couldn’t survive in California. I honestly didn’t see a way out, we were within a day of packing up the truck and moving to Nebraska.
So did it work? You tell me. That same week, we found out the kids could get Social Security from Andrea’s years as a pharmacist – a decent amount for each child. A property management company I’d talked with before the changes in work contacted me and said they had a home, the owner would work with me and my credit or other issues. I could move in as soon as the paint was dry, if I liked it, and the rent was in my budget range. I had put out feelers for a new job. Within days of the wish the man who is now my current boss called me and offered me a job doing the thing I love and went to school for. We were able to stay in California, we had a home, I had an amazing job, and we are able to survive.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we’re wealthy. We still struggle, things aren’t rose colored glasses all the time. But a kindness – the thoughts of young children, the generosity of those who grew up as children with me, lifted me out of a hole. You have no idea what that meant to me. It may have been a little thing to them, or maybe they sacrificed for it as well, but I felt it. It literally was like we were lifted up by a thousand cranes. That lift, something probably so simple to all those people, was one of the most important moments in our lives.
The cranes are in the living room, in a prominent place. The enclosure holding all 1,000 and the framed picture there when I walk in every night. Even today I look in there and see them, and I feel myself lifted . . . just a little higher.