Beautiful Old Broads remember May

Dear Ones, 

I was buoyed by all the comments about my post last week on May altars and thrilled that some of you BOB’s shared your memories.  Am passing their reminisces on to you all.

Susie who grew up in Fort Worth remembers helping her dad plant rose bushes and beating a tennis ball against the garage wall when she wasn’t struggling with confirmation classes at church.

Another Texas gal remembers walking home from school to her grandmothers.

In the backyard pecan tree, she rigged up a trapeze that she made from a metal mop handle.

Mary Ann,(who grew up in central Illinois, shared a charming story about her May Day.  Little girls made vases out of construction paper and hung bouquets on neighbor’s doors. 

Memories are so precious and so individual.  And we BOB’s were clever gals.

Thanks for sharing and I have one more moment about my May memories to share with you. Last week I wrote that I was going to sing more and sing loud too.  I sailed right in to sing some of those old Blessed Mother hymns from long ago May days.  Only problem was except for the chorus and a few snatches of notes, I couldn’t remember the words.  Humming was not an option so ta-dah…You Tube to the rescue.  I googled Queen of the May and like magic, the song popped up on my screen with all the lyrics.  Then the magnificent voice of Irish tenor, Frank Patterson filled my study.  What a reaction that triggered in me.  My eyes filled…and overflowed and as he sang all the verses, the words swept me back to St Theresa’s and those long ago Mays and I just about flooded the room with tears (okay I exaggerate) but I did weep.  The music resonated inside me and I wanted my mother and my sister and my childhood all back.  Hard to explain, just a yearning. It was a bittersweet few minutes.  Music truly has the power to touch the soul and stir the heart.

Enough of the past…on to the present and a sincere warm wish that all of you sisters and mothers, and daughters and aunts have a beautiful Mother’s Day.

                        “Oh better than the minting of a cold-crowned king

                        Is the safe-kept memory of a lovely thing.”    Sara Teasdale