May: Wildflowers, Memories, and Mom

May always makes me think of my mom. It was her favorite month, and May 8th is her birthday. She loved everything green and her birthstone—emerald—and adored lily of the valley, those tiny, fragrant blooms she coaxed every spring from her rock gardens near Genoa, Minnesota, then made sure I never missed the opportunity to walk around enjoying them with her.

She and Dad spent over fifty years together in that part of the world. But long before that, she started her story in Little Fork with six siblings, then moved to International Falls where she met my handsome father at a soda shop. They began their life in an old garage Dad dragged from one location to another and turned into a house. It was there they welcomed my older brother—my only sibling—whom she named after her wonderful stepfather.

Mom wore sequined jackets and hats like a rodeo queen, adored her ponies, and turned hunting trips with her brother Al into full-blown adventures. She liked to say her free-spirited streak came straight from her Irish roots—and we never argued, especially not with a woman decked in sequins holding a pony bridle. She smoked wild turkey and made venison jerky, always happy to share whatever she made—or found wandering in her yard—with the rest of us. After I moved to Arizona, she’d stuff envelopes with newspaper clippings, recipes, and little slices of home for my kids and me.

I miss her. I miss the cool spring air of Minnesota, the dew on the leaves, the wildflowers that popped up like secrets after winter’s thaw, and those early Minnesota May mornings when we’d head out together with my firstborn on my back, hunting for mushrooms and blooms as if they were hidden treasures.

This May, I’ll pause to remember her—in the garden, in the birds singing near my window, in the scent of something green and growing. And I’ll be grateful—for her love, her stories, and the unique, beautiful way she lived.