I love May. It's absolutely my favorite month. Even with the wind tossing the maple trees along the windbreak and steely gray skies, the landscape is beautiful.

The vibrant grass -- freshly mowed -- is a green that can never be recreated on a paint chip. Each blade appears to glow from within. Lilacs, blooming beside almost every old farmhouse, sweeten the air with their unmistakable fragrance. While lilac is one of my favorite scents, it cannot be duplicated in any room spray or candle. It is a seasonal pleasure to be enjoyed at the moment.

Birdsong is as sweet as the lilacs. The orioles have returned and, along with robins and a pair of brown thrashers setting up housekeeping in the windbreak, fill our days with music. Wrens chitter-chatter as they flit from nest site to nest site. A catbird has been treating us to an evening concert from the lilac by the screened porch. We can only hope it will nest there, too.

I heard that birds will use pet hair for lining nests. After the last suet cake was finished off I filled the suet basket with a couple of brushfuls of fur that Applejack the corgi cordially provided. And sure enough, it wasn't long before a tufted titmouse was gathering big, fluffy beakfuls and disappearing, only to return for more a short time later. A Carolina wren is nesting in a gourd birdhouse I received as a Christmas gift. I hung it in a lilac bush and not long after, when I checked to see if it was inhabited, I met the indignant, beady-eyed glare of a mother Carolina wren. Every once in a while I can't resist peeking in to see how things are progressing. The prospective mother's attitude has not mellowed.

Another reason I love May is Mother's Day. Motherhood crosses boundaries of all kinds -- geography, language, age, race and culture. I don't expect, like the ancient Greeks believed, that my maternal role elevates me to the rank of goddess. My achievements as a parent are no more worthy of highlighting than any other. For one thing, I'm not finished yet and I don't really fit the mold of a tidy, apron-wearing, pie-baking mom. Despite my best efforts, my hair is always sticking up in the wrong place. I prefer bare feet over shoes and I'd rather gather eggs than make cupcakes. I guess I'll have to take my solace in our oldest daughter's candid appraisal: "You're kind, but you're not sweet."

I have many reasons for appreciating this day, but I don't treasure it because I need time off from chores -- everyone needs that. A specially prepared brunch, along with the kitchen cleanup afterward, is a real treat, however. And although it's not the gifts, a couple of presents lovingly wrapped in delicate floral tissue are very much appreciated additions.

My fondness for Mother's Day probably has to do with warm childhood memories such as patiently posing for pictures with Mom and my sisters while Dad messed around with the focus on his beloved Argus camera. I remember mother-daughter banquets at church and creating clumsy handmade cards in Sunday school. The cards were proudly presented to Mom along with a spindly marigold seedling in a soggy paper cup. In my memories the sun was always warm, lilacs and tulips always blooming. With childish assurance, I never imagined a time when my mother wouldn't be there. But, that time came all too soon.

I have a friend whose mother also died young. We have often discussed being, as she calls it, "a mother without a mother." Life doesn't hold still and others have offered advice and support such as friends and my stepmother who takes such good care of Dad. But I would like to hear Mom's voice say, "She reminds me of you at that age," or "You've done a good job." Mothers without mothers, my sisters and I never had the opportunity to ask our mother's advice about diaper rash and potty training. We never saw our daughters reach up and give her a hug. I hope these are opportunities my daughters will have.