On our way home from a friend’s internment I reflected on the flowers the family of this good man laid down beside his grave. They were from the field behind their home in Vermont, and brought to this veterans’ cemetery, in Boscawen, New Hampshire. The sermon of eternal life, of the power of personal agency and of the resurrection was given, the grave dedicated, the flag folded and handed to the widow by a somber Navy Chaplain. All were thoughtfully executed and now it was time to leave, yet a few lingered.
His daughters and granddaughters brought yellow golden rod, white asters and hot pink verbena, and laid them all along the bottom edges of the coffin. A small woman with thinning hair wrapped in a gray flowered scarf placed a store-bought small bouquet of roses. My first thoughts were not charitable. “Why didn’t she remove the plastic?”; “Why didn’t she know Jim preferred wild flowers?”; “She is messing up this simple offering with her quick trip to the store.” The look of the plastic wrapped hothouse flower nestled among the natural display insulted my artist’s eye.
I looked closer at the woman and noticed that her clothes were simple, but neat and clean. She wore a soft yellow jacket – the same shade as the flowers she brought. Her skin was thin. Her complexion pale which I recognized only came from illness. This humble elderly woman gave a greater gift then any of the others. Even though her flowers were store bought, it cost her more in energy and money which she most certainly didn’t have. The healthy who walked into a field to gather flowers for their graveside gifts made the store purchased offering even more stark in contrast.
Flowers are a thing of unusual importance in our society. They mark milestones, acknowledge events, show our deepest love and our greatest regrets. If pop culture is to be believed, each has a meaning and for that we must thank marketing agencies around the world, both modern and ancient. There isn’t a man over the age of thirty that has not madly looked for a florist shop to buy flowers, because of some crime he committed; all in hope of a full pardon from his beloved.
That is why to this day I hate roses. The only time I received them as a gift was when the man in my life screwed up, until I met Steve. Once he sent me a beautiful bouquet of multi-colored roses. I called immediately to find out what he did wrong. The poor man stammered for ten minutes before he asked, “What do I buy you if I want to show you I love you?”
“A garbage disposal.” I said.
Every woman seems to have a favorite flower and even some men, but for me picking a favorite is difficult even to this day – there are too many. In high school I narrowed in on daisies, but over time my preference became the Christmas Cactus Flower. I loved the pointed spiky petals of hot pink, red or sometimes yellow. Once a year this gangly ugly plant produced these incredible blooms, which made me a permeant groupie.
I am past the time of life where I am thinking of the perfect flower for my wedding, (I’ve had two), or what my future children’s flower will be. I have a Lily of the Valley, Sweat pea and Carnation, plus two step-flowers a Larkspur and Poinsettia. I have a garden of children as well as grandchildren – I don’t need more. No, I am at a place where I realize life is not only short, but has an ending.
Today’s events made me wonder what flowers would people bring to my funeral? Would it be store bought flowers in clear plastic, large overpriced bouquets from florist shops or simple wildflowers from their back yards.
We drove thru the final resting places of these brave men. Its manicured lawn of green grass that was groomed and cared for in order to blanket these people as they rested. The grass was so thick that the softness could be felt, even under hard soled shoes. I noticed that not one weed or wild flower dare to grace the perfection of order – where were the dandelions?
That moment when I realized that the military did not allow room for our nation’s historical piece of horticulture, as well as the biggest pain in the ass flower we have or will ever know. Shame on them. I wanted everyone to bring that flower of sunshine to my funeral. There should always be room for dandelions. Young boys torment the girls in their lives with singing about babies’ heads popping off, then demonstrated it with this flower. Little girls rub it under chins to see who likes butter, then as they become older, they weave them into wreaths to circle their heads. They looked similar to cherubs and angles who have momentarily landed on earth as they dance over the lawn.
There is not a part the plant that is not edible and that is why the pilgrims brought them over from England in the 1600’s. The greens are the first to rise after the winter snows to be eaten and wake our groggy winter bodies. The flowers can be made into jellies and fritters, or into tinctures which are good for livers and gallbladders.
Its sap stains our hands and it grows in every nook and cranny to the delight of bees and children. They are an annoyance for every gardener and a horror to an environmentalist. This plant even has an industry of tools dedicated to its removal. Mount Washington last spring had volunteers using these tools against the invasion of these happy little tribbles to its rock pile of a summit.
My favorite thing about the dandelion is that after its life of bold coloration it turns, becoming a lace replica of the moon; with which all fanciful minds can make a wish. I love blowing the filigree seeds carrying my hearts request, as I watch every gardener in the family wince.
This flower has many similarities to me: I land where I see fit, I bury my roots down deep, I grow no matter the conditions around me, because this is where I choose to be. The harder the environment the more I thrive. I love the challenge. You either love me or hate me there is no in between. It is the perfect funeral flower for me.
