Writings

May Day

Written many years ago - this is a part of my history - ancient history - enjoy.

So this may be a foreign concept to many modern youth. That is the concept of May Day. In the past, on the first of May, there was a holiday to celebrate the passing of Winter and the onset of warmer Spring and Summer days. There was dancing and feasts and May poles. By the time I came around, that was pretty well passed, but there was a tradition of May baskets. The thought was that you had a basket, you filled it with goodies and flowers, then you left it on somebody’s doorstep and knocked and ran.
It was May 1st, 1962. I was ten years old. A very mature age and able to handle myself in many worldly ways. My younger brother, Terry, was eight. We were united that day by the curious traditions of May Day. We had both made May baskets in school, and came home ready to fill them and deliver them full of treats to the Parchells who lived next door. The problems was we didn’t have any treats.
When we arrived at home, Mom was out running errands of some sort. We overcame that disappointment with a worthy plan. We would make our own treats for our May baskets. Delays were unacceptable because after May 1st, the use of May baskets was just not allowed. Our goodies of choice would be homemade cookies. All of the ingredients were there so we started to work. Step one, preheat the over to 375 degrees. So the gas oven was turned on. We then carefully measured, stirred and dispensed a cookie sheet full of what we knew would be the best May Day cookies ever baked. Then our first set back became apparent.
The old gas stove was cantankerous. Many times the pilot light would go out, meaning it wouldn’t self light. Such was the case that beautiful Spring day. I knew exactly what to do. In fact I had done it many times for Mom. All you had to do was strike a match and hold it to the pilot hole in the oven and it would light. It worked every time. It worked this time also, just all too well.
That oven had been turned on for at least 20 minutes, all that time filling the oven and the back hood of the oven with gas. Imagine what the lighted match did. There was a loud swoosh as a sheet of flame shot straight out across the top of the oven. Now imagine where the faces of a ten year old and an eight year old are relative to the top of that oven. The flame went right in our faces. It surely was divine intervention because both of our hands were up in front of our faces when the sheet of flame hit. Our faces were spared. Our eyebrows and our bangs however were gone in sizzles of little smoking, smelly balls of ash. And the backs of our hands were burnt to a flaming hot red.
Instinct took over. I just grabbed Terry and plunged his and my hands into icy water in a measuring bowl in the sink. We were crying and whimpering when Mom came home just a few minutes later. Finally an adult presence. She sized up the situation pretty fast and did the proper thing first. She turned off the oven which had finally pre-heated to 375 degrees. Then she took care of her two hurt and lucky little boys.
We didn’t get a trip to the doctor. Mom called and he said that there was noting much he could do about it. The backs of my hands each developed one inch long blisters running down each of the knuckles. One of those blisters was torn off when I tried to slide during a baseball practice. That produced the only permanent result of the stove explosion as it became infected and left a scar that is still apparent on the back of my hand. Our hair and eyebrows finally grew back so we didn‘t look as much like Speilburg aliens.
Later that evening, Mom baked the cookies. We didn’t take them anywhere in our May baskets, but they were pretty good cookies.