Maypole Day

 May 1st. May Day. Maypole Day. Rebirth. New beginnings. Spring.

I have a vivid memory of (when I was very young) celebrating Maypole Day at a local high school where one of my aunts served on the May Day Queen Court. Given the timeframe, I would have been under the age of five. That's a pretty powerful memory. 

As little girls do sometimes, I thought my aunt looked like a fairy princess. As required then, she wore a long, formal ball gown with evening gloves. My memory wants me to recall that the dress was pale yellow for some reason, but the history and customs of the Maypole Court and Dance indicate it was likely white. Either way, I thought her to be so beautiful. Even though she was not crowned May Day Queen (or May Queen) that day, watching the festivities surrounding the custom and the coordinated dancing around the Maypole held a strong enough fascination for me. I recall it decades later every May 1st. And for a few years in elementary school, I took part in Maypole Dancing, too, until the practice was nothing more than a memory. 

It is likely that my aunt is somewhere in one of the two photographs here. Same timeframe, same location. And somewhere in the crowd, I sat with my grandmother watching the pageantry of it all with wonder. 

 

Also, regarding my last post on Cedar Waxwings, I found a photograph of one of the crabapple trees in my front yard in full bloom. There were three of these trees in my yard at the time; the smallest one was in the back that I referenced in that blog post. As always, thanks for reading what I post here. 

Cedar Waxwings

 Sometime in March or April about a dozen or so years ago, I watched a gift fly into view from my kitchen window in Chicagoland. A flock of the most beautiful birds suddenly swooped into my sightline, attacking a crabapple tree in the backyard. Attacking might not be the correct word, but it’s how it initially looked. They were actually feasting. Perhaps the words frenzy, frenetic, frenetically could be applied, but hopefully there’s the visual. Out of control.

First, I had never seen such a bird so I had no idea what was going on or why, not to mention a flock of feathered beauty acting a little crazy; secondly, as a photographer, I automatically grabbed my camera wondering how I could get outside without scaring them away. And third, the Original Best Girl was suddenly at my side ready to join me. You see, she was my canine supermodel and my camera meant she and I were going outside for adventures. So I couldn’t resist her soft brown eyes and go without her. Believe it or not, my girl and I went outside and stood about four feet from all of the activity and it didn’t phase the party at all. 

Getting a clear and good photo of them proved difficult, however, regardless of how close I was to them. They were moving around the tree so quickly, tossing back the berries and passing them around. I had no way of knowing where they were going next. Fluttering times a thousand. Even Lily, Original Best Girl, sat there mesmerized. Our presence did not bother these gorgeous birds. And just as quickly as they arrived, they departed as a flock. Done. Gone. Never to be seen again. 

My dog looked at me as if to say, “What just happened?” Even she had forgotten about the camera. The really only clear photograph I got that day is shared here. The image can be found on my Fine Art America/Pixels site. 

It took a bit of searching to find what type of bird had briefly entered my world that day, but they are called Cedar Waxwings. Described as social songbirds with pale yellow bellies and black masks, they travel in flocks following fruit sources (the berries left on my crabapple tree). They are also known to get intoxicated on the fermented berries they eat. Check. So I concluded that’s what I saw that day…it explains the way these birds were acting, and how oblivious they were to me and to my dog. They imbibed a little too much, and now I affectionately refer to these stunning birds as Little Drunk Bandits (note the black masks). Just for fun though.

That day was the first and only time I have ever been in the presence of a Cedar Waxwing. Right place, right time, gift sort of thing. At the time, there were two other crabapple trees in the yard so I wondered if they had hit those trees, as well. If not, I got lucky that day because the tree they chose was the only one visible from my kitchen window. Bird’s Eye View. Sorry, couldn’t resist. And call it a lucky gift if these beautiful birds ever decide to visit, however briefly it might be. 

With Spring Comes a Bit of Homesickness

It’s the same every year.  April rolls around and I start itching to plant things.  A true sign of the growing season where I live is the white tent pitched in the parking lot of the local Jewel grocery store, with promises of geraniums, snapdragons, other annuals, rosebushes and perennials for sale.  Flower bed and landscaping heaven for the likes of me.  But in my neck of the woods, I never plant anything until May has arrived and it’s often necessary to cover things at night for a while.

Call me a native southerner, a transplanted southerner or originally from the south, but twenty-one years have passed since I lived in that part of the country. This is a time of year that I long for being there; I get homesick for it in the spring.  I’m envious of my southern friends and family who are enjoying the beauty of spring, and their ability to plant things long before I will.  The warmth, the endless color and the extreme pleasure of just being outside and drinking in all of nature’s beauty are things that I can’t describe with words.  The world comes to life.  Photographs don’t do it justice.  It’s necessary to be there, feel it, to experience it.  And I miss it in the spring.

Probably a lot of it has to do with nostalgia.  So much of this time of year reminds me of my grandmother.  I associate magnolia trees and dogwoods with her, their blooms a feast for the eyes.  There were honeysuckle vines in her yard and I remember sucking the nectar from the blooms during the late spring when I was a child.  Easter was celebrated with and around my grandmother…Sunday dinner was at her house with Easter egg hunts afterward.  It’s a time of year that I miss her most.  Perhaps that’s why I ache for the southern springtime.

As winter nods its head and goes to sleep, I will long for a certain time of my life that has passed, but moving away allowed me to appreciate the other seasons.  While northern springs don’t seem as long, colorful or as warm as those in the south, autumn in the north is spectacular.  And it’s something you won’t find in the southern states.  The duration of color and cool but comfortable temperatures are things to experience.  I learned to love winter and its snow (often a lot of it); and I certainly appreciate summer when humidity levels aren’t making you wilt or pass out.  If I could pick one place to live, its seasons would be a combination of all the above…the perfect climate, at least in my opinion.  I’m not sure there is such a place. 

So I will continue to watch for that white tent.  It’s not there yet, but I noticed this morning the area is roped off, with bags of mulch and potting soil waiting for its arrival.  It’ll be my cue that it’s okay to at least start browsing and buying, even if it is too early to plant.  There is the garage after all, when the chill remains in the air and plants have to come inside.

Then I’ll continue reading about spring (with longing) from all of my southern Facebook friends, while being content with tulip-filled vases inside my house.