Article Text

For years, I would have insisted that May Day celebrations played no part in my childhood. Then a friend I had known since age four reminded me of a night at Adams Coliseum, where we had danced around maypoles.

Suddenly, the scene returned: the gym floor packed with poles that may actually have been repurposed tetherball stands, while proud parents and other spectators filled the upstairs bleachers on a Friday night.

Sixth-graders from all seven elementary schools participated in matching outfits. Girls wore navy blue skirts, boys wore navy pants, and everyone wore white shirts.

But my attention was fixed on what I wore beneath my circular skirt: my first 33-yard crinoline. Such extravagant underskirts were practically unknown to us until my mother and I discovered one at Hill’s Department Store while shopping for the required uniform.

Before I left home, Mom photographed me beside our Philco television. The stiff crinoline made me resemble an upside-down funnel, and my enormous grin revealed just how delighted I was with the look.

My memories of the dancing itself are less vivid because I was preoccupied with showing off my fashion discovery. I do recall music pouring from the loudspeaker as the girls moved around the poles, do-si-doing and ducking beneath ribbons held by boys approaching from the opposite direction.

Apparently, I managed the routine well enough. If I had stumbled, one of the other girls surely would have been eager to mention it.

By junior high, crinolines—also known as can-cans—were everywhere at school. I may not have achieved a historic scientific breakthrough, but in my small corner of the world, that May Day celebration left me feeling like a genuine fashion trailblazer.