Spring is here. I look back at traditions past. There were the school plays, the Maypole dance, the first picnic. Time for the flowers to bloom, the trees in all their green glory. It was the end of the cold winter, a time when you could venture out without a coat. It brought with it anticipation, vacation, fishing, picking berries, and generally enjoying the outdoors.
My first memories are of Surry, a small town in Maine. The passing of winter meant that we would soon make the trip to the family plot in the town cemetery cutting the grass, pulling the weeds, planting some flowers as we honored those who came before us. The last time I made this trip was probably in 1952. We all jumped on board a horse drawn wagon and rode in the back, listening to the clip clop of the horses hoofs against the pavement. We had packed everything to spend the day. We had pansies for color, scithes and rakes to cut the grass. We had a picnic lunch to share. This was more than a family gathering, but was a community event. The day would end wth a prayer for a new year, a bountiful harvest, and for joy in the world.
Later I moved to Franklin, another nearby town, as my parents bought their first house. I started school. We had plays we performed for the parent's and the town and we would have a seasonal theme for each. Our mom would make the costumes, and the play would debut on the large stage at the local Grange Hall. It would be preceded by a community dinner where families would sit at long tables and exchange greetings and gossip. All the children would leave early, gathering backstage getting into their costumes and practicing their lines. I never fully mastered my lines and was always thankful for the teacher sitting near the stage who would prompt us so we could recite the dialogue. On May 1st we would have the Maypole dance, and before the actual event, there had been weeks of practice. We would dance around the maypole, ribbons in hand (most times it was colored crepe paper) to the music provided by local musicians. I always recall the maypole turned out beautiful. About the same time, the apple trees would be blooming, providing a bit of perfume to the affair.
Later, when I moved to California, I found little tradition. The only semblance to celebration was watching the swallows return to Capistrano. However the memories reman.
My first memories are of Surry, a small town in Maine. The passing of winter meant that we would soon make the trip to the family plot in the town cemetery cutting the grass, pulling the weeds, planting some flowers as we honored those who came before us. The last time I made this trip was probably in 1952. We all jumped on board a horse drawn wagon and rode in the back, listening to the clip clop of the horses hoofs against the pavement. We had packed everything to spend the day. We had pansies for color, scithes and rakes to cut the grass. We had a picnic lunch to share. This was more than a family gathering, but was a community event. The day would end wth a prayer for a new year, a bountiful harvest, and for joy in the world.
Later I moved to Franklin, another nearby town, as my parents bought their first house. I started school. We had plays we performed for the parent's and the town and we would have a seasonal theme for each. Our mom would make the costumes, and the play would debut on the large stage at the local Grange Hall. It would be preceded by a community dinner where families would sit at long tables and exchange greetings and gossip. All the children would leave early, gathering backstage getting into their costumes and practicing their lines. I never fully mastered my lines and was always thankful for the teacher sitting near the stage who would prompt us so we could recite the dialogue. On May 1st we would have the Maypole dance, and before the actual event, there had been weeks of practice. We would dance around the maypole, ribbons in hand (most times it was colored crepe paper) to the music provided by local musicians. I always recall the maypole turned out beautiful. About the same time, the apple trees would be blooming, providing a bit of perfume to the affair.
Later, when I moved to California, I found little tradition. The only semblance to celebration was watching the swallows return to Capistrano. However the memories reman.