Thistles

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Thistle flowers are very pretty, their light purple flowers contrasting with the bold, textured green of the leaves and branches of the plant. Unfortunately, the garden beds on the south side of the house, thick clay no matter how much I have mulched and dug in composted material, are rife with thistle plants, soon after the tulips have died back at the end of spring. I let the thistles grow for long enough that I can take photographs, and long enough that the bees can enjoy them while they wait for the hollyhocks to bloom.

My thistles don’t look like the thistles of Scotland that I see in photographs on the Internet. Mine are much more tame, less threatening.

I don’t recall from where in Scotland my ancestors immigrated to the United States, or when. I don’t think that’s a major part of my heritage, unless we’re thinking Celt, in which case the Irish and Welsh, as well as the Scottish ancestries are grouped together. I’ve Irish ancestry on both sides of the family. Berry, my mother’s side of the family, is Scottish and northern Irish, but it’s also a French name, and I do have people from France in my family tree. On my father’s side? His mother was Mary Elizabeth Murphy. Can’t get much more Irish than that!

My father and mother used to sing, we children joining in as soon as we were able, popular songs when we went on car trips, including “Who Threw the Overalls in Mistress Murphy’s Chowder”, “Danny Boy”, “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”, and others. One of my favorites is Wearin’ of the Green (MP3 and lyrics). Another, a popular round, was “White Coral Bells.” I very much enjoyed singing…listening to our singing. The way the various voices wove together, the complexity of the intertwining melody and words layering over the phrase before and under the one that followed. The beauty was arresting.