Wherein I’m called the church lady

So, did you happen to partake in May Day festivities?  Anyone?  Anyone?

For the past *however many* years, I’ve been head ambassador for May Day. Alas, it does not seem to be catching on; nevertheless, I’m nothing if not stubborn.

Of course, a tight budget requires scaling back–for the second year in a row, I might add. I’m okay with it for one year, but two … in a row?  That’s a little much to ask.

Still, I managed to send out a few seeds, deliver a couple four packs of pansies, and make a run to “the home.” Since I wasn’t exactly sure where a couple of the old girls lived, I stopped to ask my friend at the front desk. While she looked up names and apartment numbers, we chatted. She asked if I was sticking around for brunch. I told her no, I was actually on my way to church. This whole time, I noticed a housekeeper standing off to the side, listening in.  I didn’t really think anything of it; being a throw-back I am typically somewhat of a spectacle. I smiled, she smiled back, then I went on my merry way.

Now, when you’re a child, the rules of May Day go something like this: 1. Place flowers on doorstep; 2. Ring the doorbell; 3. Run like you’ve never ran before. Things change a bit when you’re old–most especially if you’re old, and you’re me. I am, after all, the one who cannot so much as take a photo of a giraffe–while standing on level ground–without mishap. Running, my friends, is out. Instead, I simply hang the flowers on the door and slink off; with steady meal times, they’re bound to be discovered sooner, rather than later.

Apparently, the housekeeper was not aware of the rules.

As soon as I was out of sight, she went along behind me, took up the flowers, and knocked on the doors. When the old girls would ask who the flowers were from, she would say she didn’t know, but she thought it was some church lady.

Well, isn’t that special.

So now the question begs to be asked, housekeeper or a satan’s mistress? You be the judge.