May Day was something we had to do. No one, not one single teacher, ever explained why—or told us the significance of the day. To us, it meant endless, hot rehearsals, and carrying our chairs up and down the ramps.
The ramps led from the top of the main school to the playground. In the center, where the two ramps met, was the position of the teacher on recess duty. From here a whistle could be blown and orders shouted.
The pain about May Day was two-fold. First we had to learn some dumb dance the usually involved do-si-do and alamand left—often dressed in crepe paper costumes that bled unto our clothes. Second, we had to lug our chairs from the class, up and down the ramps, to the playground.
I don’t know about Bo Flex and weight lifting, but lugging that chair must have given me some sort of guns. Back and forth—every rehearsal. Up the ramp, down the ramp. Sitting in the sun. No one even thought about skin cancer in those days. The only shade on the playground were some slim bottle brush trees.
When the day actually came, it was special. My dad took the day off, went to Bob’s Big Boy and brought us a carry out of dripping hamburgers. That was pretty cool. And on the most wonderful May Day, Montie Montana came to the playground on his horse and it galloped around the handball courts on rubber shoes.
Montie Montana seems a lot more climactic than my best May Day experience, which can be summed up in these 8 words: "don't break my heart, my achey breaky heart."
ReplyDeleteI think what's beautiful about this is that I can hear your voice as I read. Very enjoyable I must say.