"May"

 The photo: flowers outside our entrance at Essex Meadows, welcoming us to spring and to the month.

 

Amidst all the turmoil in the world, it is nice to take a moment to reflect on the month of May, and on our great good luck to be living in this nation at this time.

 

Sydney M. Williams

 

More Essays from Essex

“May”

May 1, 2026

 

“There is May in books forever;

May will part from Spencer never;

May’s in Milton, May’s in Prior,

May’s in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer,

May’s in all the Italian books: – 
She has old and modern nooks...”

                                                                                                                “May and the Poets,” c.1812

                                                                                                                Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)

 

May is named for the Roman goddess Maia, daughter of Atlas and mother of Hermes; thus the right month to celebrate Mothers’ Day, as we will on May 10. Maia was the nurturer of plants and was associated with fertility and springtime. Students, cooped up in dorms and classrooms during the long winter, would, on the first of May, chant: “Hooray! Hooray! Outdoor sporting starts today!” It is a month when newly-blossomed flowers offer thanks for April’s showers. It is the month for graduations – a granddaughter’s from high school this year, along with a granddaughter and grandson from college. It is the month in which my parents were married eighty-eight years ago, and one in which a brother and granddaughter were born. 

 

While the summer solstice arrives on June 21, whiffs of summer appear in May. It is when Connecticut’s state flower, mountain laurel, bursts into bloom, and when lilacs and rhododendrons provide fragrance to a newly-wakened Earth. It is when trees become fully clothed, in their summer-green finery.

 

May Day, the first of May, commemorates the fight for labor rights. Its origin stems from the May 4, 1886 Chicago Haymarket Affair, when a confrontation between striking workers, primarily from the McCormick Harvester Machine Company, and the police turned violent. It was a date usurped by the Soviet Union to display socialist solidarity, industrial achievements and military strength. As an aside, the distress signal “Mayday! Mayday!” has nothing to do with the month. Instead, it originates from the French phrase m’aider! m’aider!, meaning help me.   

 

May is a month celebrated by poets, like Leigh Hunt, in the epigraph above, and a month noted in history: On May 10, 1869 the Golden Spike was driven into a rail tie at Council Bluffs, Utah, completing the first transcontinental railroad. Sixty-two years later, on May 1, 1931, construction on the Empire State – then the world’s tallest building – was completed. After causing the deaths of almost 40 million people over five and a half years, Victory in Europe arrived on May 8, 1945. Nine years later, on May 6, 1954, medical student Roger Bannister, became the first man to run a mile in under four minutes. And on May 25, 1961 President John F. Kennedy announced the goal of landing a man on the moon. Five years later, on May 30, 1966, the unmanned Surveyor 1 landed on the moon. (It would be another three years and two months – July 20, 1969 – before Neil Armstrong and Aldrin actually walked on the moon.)

 

.............................................................................

 

And, as this essay was begun on a cold March day, I know that one of the best things about May is that it is not March.

"The 1960s - For Me"

 

The photo is of my wife and me on April 11, 1964.

 

In his forward to his 1977 collection of essays, The Essays of E.B. White, Mr. white wrote: “The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest...Only a person who is congenitally self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays.”

 

Truer words I have rarely read, and the attached is exhibit ‘A.’

 

Sydney M. Williams

 

More Essays from Essex

“The 1960s – For Me”

October 22, 2025

 

“The sixties produced an archaic mind-set that is

great for imagining a world not yet in existence.”

                                                                                                                Walter Isaacson (1952-)

                                                                                                                Steve Jobs, 2011

 

The third decade of one’s life is, perhaps, the most transformative. One’s first decade is composed of blissful childhood. During one’s second decade, one moves from childhood to adulthood through the challenging teenage years. By one’s third decade, parenting has (mostly) been done; it is the time when one rises (or falls) as an individual, an adult. 

 

For those born in the late 1930s and early 1940s, the 1960s were our time, just as the 2020s are for our grandchildren. It was a chaotic time, one that followed the perceived gentler and more conformist 1950s. 

 

The ‘60s began on a note of hope, with the election of John F. Kennedy as President, the first born in the 20^th Century. Then things fell apart: His assassination in November 1963 was followed by the assassinations of Martin Luther King in April 1968 and two months later of Robert F. Kennedy. As well, civil rights advocates Malcolm X, Medgar Evans and James Chaney, among several others, were killed. It was the decade in which Vietnam divided the country and gave birth to the anti-war movement. That movement led to the 1968 tumultuous Democratic Convention in Chicago and two years later to the Kent State shooting. It was the decade when the Beatles first appeared, when Abbie Hoffman formed the Youth International Party (YIP). It saw the rise of the sexual revolution, with Germaine Greer, Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinham. And the decade ended on mixed notes – with Woodstock, a four-day rock concert attended by an estimated half a million drugged-up, narcissistic young people. And then, in July 1969, we watched with patriotic pride Neil Armstrong walk on the Moon. 

 

For me, that decade was metamorphic. Born in January 1941, I was twenty in 1961 – an unfocused student who had dropped out of college. I spent the summer of 1961 working in a Canadian nickel mine and then as a lab technician for a metallurgical company outside of Boston.

 

The next ten years changed me. On New Years Eve of 1961 I met Caroline, and my life improved. We were married two years later, and two of our three children were born, one in 1966 and the second in 1968. However, Caroline lost her one remaining grandparent in 1965 and her father in 1969. I lost my three remaining grandparents in 1961, 1963 and 1969, and my father died in 1968. I finished college, completed my military obligation, began a real job. I changed careers in 1967, beginning forty-eight years as a stock broker. 

 

There is no grand design to life. Preparation, diligence and hard work are positive traits, but life is largely serendipitous. In 1960, I could not have predicted how things would change for me, any more than I could foresee how the country would change. There was death, but there was also life. With Caroline as my wife and new-born children, while I mourn the deaths, I look back on the 1960s with fondness.