Yesterday, with flower filled paper cones, the press of a door bell and some swift, albeit awkward, running, I briefly traveled back to the May Days of my childhood.
Filled with the variety of blooms from my mother's garden, these baskets made their way to the door knobs of my grandmothers, just as they did when I was a kid.
Running away from each house, after depositing my basket and ringing the bell, I grasped a sliver of pure simple joy which I thought I'd left in childhood. With bright sunshine of the first May morning, and the knowledge that I'd made someone's day, the first day of May was truly a lovely one.
Perhaps I should travel home to Western New York every May Day.
To read more about May Day, and my May Day traditions, click here.