May Day Musings

In 1969, when I was very little (about a year after my dad died), my mom saved up enough money from her job as a computer programmer at West Coast Drug to buy a home in Rainier Beach--4910 S. Rose Street. It was a lovely home, with a very large cherry tree, an ill-placed grape arbor (always in the shade), a separate garage, 4 bedrooms a breakfast nook, and more. It did albeit, have  a bit of a carpenter ant problem, but it will always be a repository of happy memories. For reasons I cannot explain, there was a large black and white television on wooden legs IN MY ROOM. I was certainly an early adopter of that trend. Until Jenny died, it's also the last time I had a television in my room. I digress. 

Next door to us was a duiplex, where a single mother lived with her young son, next to her a black Metro bus driver, likely one of the first ever-I presume one of the first, who kept an very unfriendly Afghan dog chained in the yard  A house stood next to us to the left, abutting Rose Street, the duplex behind it. A little old lady lived alone in the home.

May 1 in 1971 was a gorgeous spring day. I was finishing my kindergarten year--I remember being one of two students--the other a white girl--who were already reading. We would regularly meet with the kindergarten teacher, the two of us, to read with her. I ramble. Anyway, my sister Catherine and I had been talking with our mom about May Day that day. Mom told us that when she was a child, on May Day they would get a bouquet of flowers and give them to neighbors--ringing the doorbell and running away. The recipient would leave candy out in exchange. 

Catherine and I were onboard. Even then my mother was an avid gardener. Flowers, from azalea and rhodedendron, roses and other flowers were tended with loving care. My mom spent hours in the yard every weekend. My sister likely had my mom cut flowers for her--she would have been 7, me 4. She decided leaving flowers at the little old lady's house was the right plan. I glued myself to her, and we took flowers over , climbed the 6 or 7 stairs to her porch, places the flowers on the porch, knocked on the door and ran. Operation May Day flowers was half complete. Now, it was a waiting game.  

As we hid on our porch, we watched as the flowers were retrieved, and then, a couple minutes later a plaric baggy of chocolate stars was placed on the porch--a fair exchange. The

Image solely for reference purposes, not the actual 1971 chocolate referred to herein.

chocolate was cheap and old. It had that white waxy look cheap chocolate gets as it ages. My sister and I ran over, and Catherine grabbed the candy. Along with it was a note thanking us. My sister  determined she either didn't or wouldn't share the bounty. So, problem solver that I am, I decided the solution was to repeat the process. I needed that chocolate. 

The old lady, to the best of my recollection, didn't appreciate the second flower drop, she came out when I went to grab her part of the exchange and let me know. Still, she knew the rules of the exchange and didn't balk. 

I expect we were the last generation that followed this tradition, and Google AI confirms. The death of such neighborly exchanges must truly be a sentinal event signalling the destruction of close neighborhoods. 

A couple of asides about how the world has changed. What my mom actually did at West Coast Drug was fill in those little bubbles on

Computer punch card.

what were called punched cards into a rudimentary computer. She didn't write programs, didn't get rich from the work. If kids today could understand the massive change from the 1970s and 80s to today--informatuon was transferred and stored on paper--paper.

The second difference is that we ended up in Holly Park after my mom left his drunken ass and before he died. I can still remember her dragging us up Othello to neighborhood house to drop Catherine and I off at the Seattle Day

Home sweet home.

Nursery--long gone--on her way to taking Jane to school and heading to work. No matter howsweet that memory, em what is sweeter is that myom was able to save money and buy a home, moving us out of abject poverty and into home ownership. Imagine that happening today. I found an actual image of our home on the internet. It's the place furthest north, before the trees, on the right --just near the black car. Finding that picture brings back a cascade of memories . One of my earliest was that of a neighbor with whom we spent a lot of time with, screamed at her as a gaggle of brown children along with my mom and her friend Vernadeen (an enrolled member of the Nisqually tribe and not a resident of Holly Park)  walked toward Empire Way, "Carole is a ni**her lover. " I was not more than 2.5. The memory is seared into my brain. The majority of people in Holly Park in 1969 were white. Go figure.

My mom got laid off from West Coast Drug in 1971--around the time that a couple of realtors put up a sign that sread, Will The Last Person Leaving Seattle Turn Out The Lights?  Massive Boeing layoffs had wreaked havoc on the

167th and Pacific Highway, 1971.

Seattle economy. My uncle, who had money even then, refused to loan my mom money to pay the mortgage, and we lost the house in 1972. We were forced to move across the street to the Rose Arm Apartments until the summer of 1974, when Mom took us to her stomping grounds to live, and we all became Rentonites.