I went all out for Mother’s Day when I was a child. I took it very seriously. I had a ritual that I repeated for many years.
On the Saturday before THE SUNDAY, I would ride my bike to an old vacant lot surrounded by hedges of lilacs that were about two stories high. There was a mix of varieties, including what I called French Lilacs, deep purple, white lilacs which were incredibly fragrant, and double lilacs, with double the number of usual petals. I was in heaven and snapped the branches of as many as I could carry, often going back for more.
Happy with myself, I rode home, stuffed every vase I could find with lilacs, then carried them down to the cellar, waiting for their appearance on the Big Day. I also knew where to find stashes of violets, so those were captured as well. Delicate and fragile, they filled my mom’s antique cups. I’d be sure to get up early on Sunday, an accomplishment for me, to carry up the flowers from the darkness of the cellar, to the daylight of the living room and dining room. Their scent would fill the house. It was glorious, as I remember, and my Mom always acted thrilled.
If I could return to any part of my childhood, Mothers Day celebration, would be tops on my list. With my Mom by my side, of course!