MY FATHER was a flower lover with a sense
of humor, and our home garden in northern Illinois was a
show place. One spring he cultivated three "weeds" in
strategic spots, "to see what would come of it."
Considerable did. For each one he had learned the scientific
name, which he used in the hearing of visitors. The six-foot
mullein in the middle of his canna bed puzzled people who
tried to figure out what kind of canna it was. A milkweed
near the street made a handsome "rubber tree," and
passers-by were often exclaiming: "Look at that rubber
plant! We didn't know it would grow outdoors in this
climate!"
But his chief fun was with his Cirsium
lanceolatum, which grew near the rose bushes under my
mother's bedroom window. About six feet tall, heavily
branched, its deeply cleft leaves were dark, sparkling green
above and densely woolly white beneath, each angle ending in
one of the needlesharp yellow spines from which the plant
derives its second name (lanceolatum).
By August it was crowned with orchid
flowers, the calyxes of which were gracefully vase shaped,
formed of many overlapping green scales, each ending in a
tiny "lance." The clustered tubular florets in each vase
were of a beautiful lavender color, each whole cluster
perhaps three inches across. The black-and-gold bumblebees
tumbled in crooning intoxication over those purple pastures,
imbibing nectar and dodging lances. My father reveled in
displaying to us children the plant's graces and
lovelinesses, until we regarded it with mingled admiration
and respect; and in the years since, its memory has helped
me more than once to discover the good in some human weed.
Then one day it served another purpose.
The chief "character" of the vicinity was a certain Mr.
Bohl, an English-American of German descent, who combined
the harshest qualities of all three nationalities. He
slapped down the opinions of everyone he met, and was in
general the most heartily detested "Mr. Know-it" of the
neighborhood. One Sunday afternoon he and his British cane
were taking the air in our garden, he as usual talking down
everything my father said or did. Suddenly confronted by
this large, flower-covered "weed," he aimed it a blow with
his cane that would have demolished it, saying scornfully,
"What do you mean by having a common thistle in your
garden?"
My father swiftly intercepted the blow,
replying sternly, "What do you mean by trying to destroy my
Cirsium lanceolatum?"
Mr. Bohl's deflation was complete. He
said apologetically, "Oh, I thought it was just a common
thistle." My father did not enlighten him, and Mr. Bohl's
manner was much chastened for the remainder of the call. We
youngsters, listening inside the window, fell over ourselves
in soundless mirth; and the anecdote, discreetly circulated,
rocked the immediate community with laughter.
Yes, Cirsium lanceolatum was "just a
common thistle." Next time you see one, study its marvelous
beauty; then go home and read 1 Corinthians 1:27-29.
