I Hate These Flowers

I hate these Celosia, Cockscomb flowers, really hate them.  Swore I would never grow them and yet they have multiplied all over my flowerbed.  Every time I look at them I remember my brother, Jim as an infant with a waist-high cast covering his broken leg and my grandmother lying in her casket.  Last night the temperature dropped to 36 degrees and I am celebrating their soon demise in this month's Wildflower Wednesday linkup.  Although I am unsure if they are considered to be a "wildflower" because I think they are "weeds."

Not to be judgemental, there are people who like to grow them for pleasure.  I am not one of those types.  If you love them, (what a horrible thought) and decide to water and fertilize them, some varieties can grow large. Some people might even say they are lovely.  

From a neighbor's garden.

I promised myself I would never grow them and then years ago I was given a packet of seeds by an unsuspecting friend.  It was a gift, I had to plant them, not to would be rude.  So I threw them out in the garden one frozen, snowy day feeling sure that was the end. Wrong. They sprouted in the early Spring, spread all over the garden and have returned every year despite not being watered or fertilized, ever.

When I was eight years old, my father's mother, "Granny" suddenly died.  Her life's passion was to feed anyone who might be hungry.  Her husband, Papa had a life's passion also.  He liked to attend funerals.  All funerals. Anyone's funeral.  Stranger's funerals. Didn't matter if he knew you or not, if there was a funeral announced in the newspaper, he was there.  Even as a young child I thought it was odd; so one day I asked him why he liked to attend funerals?  He replied he wanted to make the crowd look bigger.  

A few weeks before Granny died, my infant brother Jim, accidentally fell out of a swing and broke his leg.  Due to the type of break at his young age, he was put in a cast up to his waist.  On the day of the funeral, everyone for miles around was at the funeral home.  Granny had fed everyone at some time in their life and Papa had attended a funeral of someone in everyone's family.  It was a big crowd.  We had no idea who all of the people were but the place was standing room only.

My mother and I arrived early to receive visitors while my father stayed home to attend to Jim.  When Dad arrived, he carried my little baby brother who was grasping a smashed and withered Cockscomb bloom from the flowerbed beside our back door.  The room became hushed and all eyes watched as Dad (Granny's dearest son) approached the casket. Without being prompted, Jim carefully bent over and gently laid the smashed bloom beside Granny.

EVERYBODY GASPED AND BEGAN SOBBING! The whole room fell apart.  Strangers, friends, family, everyone was crying. It was heartbreaking. This pitiful, tiny boy in a half-body cast was giving his Granny a flower he had picked for her one last time. No one could stop blubbering.  They buried the flower with her.

I still cry even to this day when I remember it and I remember it whenever I look at Cockscomb blooms.  I blame my brother for this major childhood trauma and for causing all my dysfunctional problems.  It is all his fault.  I will never forgive him even though he doesn't remember anything.

As I sat in my flowers today holding my camera, taking pictures and mournfully reminiscing, Scooter walked over beside me, backed up to my flowerbed full of Celosias and POOPED!  

I think he read my mind, sensed my feelings, and understood how I felt.