It's May!

It’s May, it’s May the merry month of May. And I have not blogged since March.

Last Friday I discovered an archival site that still has my first attempt at having my own webpage back in 1997. It was such a primitive site in comparison to what we see today. It was great to see some of the photos that I had included there because it had one that I have somehow misplaced.

The photo is of my mother, my sister and me. When my sister and I were at St. Anthony’s School there were two clubs for girls to join. One was Hijas de María and the other Las Teresitas. I may not have the correct recollection, but it seems that the first one was for the older girls, and the latter one was for the younger ones, like us. One Sunday a month, we would wear our Teresitas uniform, sit as a group in church, and go to Holy Communion during the Mass.

But the month of May was particularly a great month for us. Maybe this is one of the reasons I especially like flowers and gardening. The month of May was dedicated to Our Holy Mother, Mary (La Virgen María), and one way of celebrating was by offering flowers in the evening during the recital of the rosary.

On the Sunday before, Father Dunne would read out the names of the mothers who were responsible for providing flowers for each evening of the coming week. I think that Mom’s turn didn’t come until sometime during the third week. To hear Father read Mom’s name was like when your name appeared in the Robstown Record. It brought a smile of pride to my face.

The younger girls—maybe first and second grade Teresitas—dressed in white, including a head cover of either lace or net, carried a bunch of flowers and formed a double line down the center aisle of the church. At the break in the rosary after ten Hail Marys, we would joyfully sing alabanzas, raising our flower-holding arms. Then we marched toward the altar and give the flowers to one of the two older girls—usually a girl from Hijas de María.

What carefree days of our childhood! We might worry that our bouquet of flowers was not big enough or that someone else’s bouquet might have prettier flowers.

Wildflowers

I was back in the garden pulling weeds today. I do not have exotic plants, but rather like the plants that can tolerate abuse. Maybe that is why I like the roses, geraniums, nasturtiums and others that I can rely on not to die if I leave for several weeks on vacation.

But I got to thinking about some of the weeds that are beautiful.

Living in California, we celebrate the California poppy. About thirty years ago we took a weekend trip north of Los Angeles just to view the hills that were orange. Although it was springtime the day turned cloudy, cold and windy. The children were great troopers, though, posing amid the poppies. The flowers were not opened because they only open for the sun. But the smiles on the faces of son and daughter were enough sunshine for me!



When I was in high school in Robstown (more than 50 years ago!), a small group of us took a field trip to San Antonio with our sponsor, Mr. Porter. The club was called something like the Junior Historians. We toured the missions and museums and took photos. Only three of us students went, so we all rode in Mr. Porter's car. The first photo was taken at the San Fernando Mission and I am the one with a pony tail; Celia and Ellen are the other two. The second picture was taken at some museum and shows Ellen Celia and Mr. Porter.

There was no I-37 at the time, so the street that took us out of town toward Robstown was South Presa Street. We were almost out of the city limits when we sighted a field of beautiful wildflowers. The wildflowers were right by the side of the road. I guess some of the flowers must have been bluebonnets, but I remember other colors, too. We stopped and all of us picked flowers, including Mr. Porter. I gave my flowers to Mom, of course. Later I thought how sweet that Mr. Porter had joined the students in gathering flowers for his loved one.

The photo below is of a bluebonnet field, but not the field of more than fifty years ago.

 

Going further back in my memory bank, the earliest wildflower I remember is the Mexican primrose. My abuelas called them amapolas. When I was in Robstown last month, I chanced to go by the house where my grandmother lived. My dad’s house (our house) was in the lot where that old house is barely standing. But, those lots were deep and as a kid I used to run in that backyard and enjoy climbing trees. Around this time of year there were always amapolas that grew way back in the yard, far from the house and far from any water source other than rain.

 

Mexican Primrose

To this day one of my favorite songs is Amapola. I remember Mom casually singing that song. Today, I especially like the rendition by Andrea Bocelli, but Placido Domingo does it great justice, too.

I Broke a Fingernail!

I broke a fingernail working in the garden. I always start out wearing my Martha Stewart garden gloves, but it's not long that I will remove at least one of the gloves. I not only get to really pull on the weeds, but I manage to get dirty hands and fingernails. I wear one of my late father's long-sleeved shirts, but sometimes still manage to get my arms scratched from the tree branches or the bougainvilleas.

 

  

 

This time of year is the best of times and the worst of times (to plagiarize Dickens) in my garden. It is the best because the rose bushes have come back after getting a severe pruning in January; the nasturtiums faithfully return without much attention; and most of the almond tree blossoms have fallen and the crop looks promising.


It is the worst of time because my eyes itch and water; my nose gets drippy; and Benadryl makes me sleepy. I think I will try some other allergy remedy. Today’s paper had coupons for both Zyrtec and Benadryl. I might give Zyrtec a chance.


Getting back to my fingernail, though, reminded of being told not to trim my nails on Sunday. I don’t remember what the dire consequences would be, but Mom and grandmas stuck by the custom. I think something embarrassing might occur if we committed the sin of trimming our nails!


That got me to thinking of another “don’t” that I remember hearing, “En martes no te cases ni te embarques.” --telling one not to marry or to embark on a Tuesday. The embark part is somewhat ambiguous, but it was usually meant not to start a trip, but it can also mean not to begin a business or some enterprise. So I guess if one can’t get going on Monday, one has to wait until Wednesday?


I remember being told that if I had to scratch one of my hands, it was better to have the itch on the left hand. That meant that I was to come into some money. But, if I had to scratch my right hand that meant that I was going to be shaking someone’s hand. How long I would have to wait for the money or the shaking of hands was never divulged, and I never bothered to ask—just like I never questioned why I could not trim my nails on a Sunday. However, I have already trimmed the rest of my fingernails--too much of the garden dirt under them!