Milli Gilbaugh

I turned on the television just in time to catch the Big Race at the Kentucky Derby. The horses were being saddled, the jockeys, in their bright jerseys were posed for an official photo, and the band was tuning up to play “My Old Kentucky Home,” the official state song. The camera panned across faces in the crowd, showing more than one race-goer shedding a sentimental tear as they sang those much-loved words written by Stephen Foster.
Even though I’ve never been near Kentucky, I found myself feeling sentimental, too, though for a quite different reason.

My paternal grandmother was a child in Germany before emigrating to the United States as a young teenager. She was from a large family. I’m not sure just how many siblings she had, but the one family photo of them that I remember looked like enough children to populate a country schoolhouse. Possibly close to a dozen all told.

Last Friday was May Day and I didn’t see a single May basket. That was a big deal when I was a child. “Tomorrow is May Basket Day,” Mother would say, and we would scramble to the hall closet where, somewhere in it’s back recesses, there would be the old wallpaper sample book that we last used to redecorate the dollhouse or cover an empty soup can to serve as a pencil holder. Mother always managed to bring home at least one outdated sample book from the paint store every year and we chose our favorite colors and designs for various craft projects.

For the largest part of my life, I’ve been just plain lucky. When I was a child, I believed my good fortune was a combination of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy and my parents– pretty much in that order. I guess I outgrew the Tooth Fairy first. After all, we have only so many baby teeth to lose and then the shiny dimes no longer appear under the pillow.

My mother used the same April fool prank every year– and I always fell for it. She’d come bustling into my room, full of her usual, early-morning energy and sing out, “Time to get up. And dress warm. It snowed in the night!”
I’d struggle up out of the depths of my deep sleep, totally unaware of what day it was, and squint toward the window, seeing nothing but sky and a few bare tree branches. With the fog beginning to clear in my brain, I tried to remember if it was a school day. Did I have to get up so early, or could I just acknowledge the news and go back to sleep?