Goldenrod memories lingering

Editor's note: This column originally was published Sept. 19, 1999.

Deep into the Goldenrod and Wild Aster month, I thought it would do well for me to review why this is one of my favorite months. Heading the list is not apples but goldenrod and goldenrod memories.

My big clump of goldenrod I've had for years just got too big, threatened to take over all the lesser surrounding flowers. Last season I had it uprooted and cast away. There is only one overlooked stalk standing this September. All summer long as I passed by, I thought I should jerk it up too. But there it still stands, putting out a yellow feathering plume. I'm sure the root system is spreading far and wide and in a few years the clump will have grown too big again. But that's all right. I like flowers that are hardy, take care of themselves and can survive in dry or rainy weather.

Some think of goldenrod as a weed. It is much maligned as a pollen producing, allergy inducing plant. This is not true. Certainly the pollen is visible when looking at the blossom closely, but, according to the encyclopedia, the pollen is too moist and sticky to float freely through the air. The culprit at this season is the ragweed which gives away its pollen to the slightest little breeze.

I consider goldenrod a flower and have seen some beautiful floral arrangements made with it. It started back in the little grade school at Loughboro. Instead of an apple for the teacher, pupils (all in one room, of course) brought great bouquets of goldenrod. The teacher, showing appreciation, kept two half gallon Mason jars full of water to receive such offerings.

Walking along country lanes and dusty roadsides, by old un-cut fence rows and across wide meadows, all the children had access to goldenrod.

Our school district was dissected by the St. Francis River. One day, instead of the usual, goldenrod-only bouquet, some group from the east side of the river arranged a bouquet of goldenrod with joe-pye weed, or iron weed, mixed in. Not to be outdone, next day a group from the west side arrived at the school with zinnias mixed with the goldenrod.

East side countered by intermingling the goldenrod with a milkweed vine whose half-opened pods were already shedding their silken floss. This made for an interesting day at school. Every time a breeze blew in through the opened windows the room was graced with floating floss. The pupils became entranced to see whose hair the airborne seed would land on, or, still more comical, the back neckline of a shirt or dress should the flossy seed land there, causing a hand slap to kill some imagined insect. Boys began to snap at the seeds open-mouthed, and then let the silken floss stick out.

The contest dissolved into a gender contest. The girls brought a bouquet with aromatic sweet basil interspersed and some lavender thistle blooms.

The boys counter-blasted by stuffing some long, white, silken goat's hair into hollow wheat stalks letting much of the hair hang out and placing them in among the feathered goldenrod. It was a striking sight, sort of ghostly. However, nothing about a goat smells good. Even the long hair, snipped from beneath a goat's chin, is redolent of the whole herd of goats unless carefully washed and washed and washed. What farm boy had time for this?

The goldenrod-and-goat-hair arrangement prompted the teacher to announce that the goldenrod season was over.

Making do with what was at hand was a value of a simpler time. Traces of that value can sometimes be detected today.

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.