CULTURE
Bring on the Sunflowers
By Kevin Johnson
Dandelions are not lions. Snapdragons are not really dragons. And so no one should expect sunflowers to radiate sunshine and light, but they do, at least to me.
They bloom during -- and thus represent -- the most sunny of seasons: late Summer. And this season, when the sun sets into a violet colored dusk filled with the buzz of 14-year cicadid songs and I watch the twilight of lightning bug dances, I will be secretly yearning for the early morning sun and it’s namesake flower. Sunflowers arrive at the apex of summer. Their bloom beckons us to get all we can out of our late August days.
“Live quickly,” they say. “For these idyllic days cannot last.”
A sunflower doesn’t bloom; it dawns. It climbs to its highest perch in the garden and beams its fleeting presence for all to see. You can almost feel warmth simmer from its face standing high in garden. It carries with it the same radiance of youth I see in my young daughters.
Characteristically, the sunflower plant has 'human-like' dimensions. The face of a blooming sunflower almost speaks to you. For this reason, it was a favorite subject for Europe's greatest artists. Van Gogh and Picasso painted it often. In more modern times, it remains a favorite icon for designers of everything from fashion to the every-day coffee mug.
During a recent trip to the Chicago Organic Conservatory, my eight-year old daughter noted her favorite plant in the greenhouse was a potted sunflower in the corner. The class instructor told her Helianthus Annuus, the annual sunflower, is commonly found in the northern Illinois area. Cherished by the native Americans for its seeds, its silage and its oil, the sunflowers of Illinois come in dozens of annual varieties.
Some grow to be 10 feet tall; others barely reach 18 inches. But the flower colors are always startling in their beauty, with every shade of yellow, brilliant orange or deep crimson. The center of the flower ranges from majestic dark zebra-striped seedheads to centers completely concealed by hundreds of tiny petals. Like people, sunflowers come in all shapes, sizes and colors. Within the sunflower family are thistles, dandelions, asters and goldenrods – fully 80% of what we call in Illinois “wild flowers.”
Gone are the days when sunflowers were only planted by schoolchildren for science projects. Garden designers once viewed sunflowers as an invasion of orderly space but now value the species for its ornamental appeal. They produce bright, bold, long-lasting flowers, good for cut flower displays, and bloom up to six weeks, providing bright lights and brilliant colors well into early September.
There are two types of commercially-available sunflower seeds. The first is called “Oilseed.” This small black seed is very high in oil content and often processed into sunflower oil and meal – or used to stock bird feeders. The second type is “non-oilseed.” This is a larger black-and-white striped seed used in a variety of food products from snacks to bread.
The cultivated sunflower has only one flower or head. But the wild cousins found growing in ditches and other areas throughout much of North America have multiple flowers and heads. As many as 20 and more heads are not uncommon. These 'wilds' are the genetic basis of today's domesticated sunflower.
Last year, my daughter and I stumbled across a field of waist-high, ten-inch sunflowers along the side of the road. My daughter wondered if she could pick a flower for her mom. The flowers were up to her chin and she ran through them, her hands extended out to the sides, skimming the tops with her fingers. I decided to do the same. After doing some comparisons, we picked the five most perfect of the thousands of flowers and headed back to the car.
The most endearing aspect of a sunflower is that, like children, sunflowers will follow the sun. When the plant is in the bud stage, it tends to track the movement of the sun across the horizon. Once the flower opens into the radiance of yellow petals, it faces east. No one knows why, maybe it’s rebellious adolescence. But it may be a defensive response. (Facing south or west could result in sun-scalding of seeds during very hot days.)
When the season ends for sunflowers, it ends sadly, sometimes tragically. Squirrels ravage them. But most -- like most of us -- just slowly begin to nod, dropping their heads slowly unable to maintain the strength to face the sun. Their heavily-ladened heads are filled too much with the accumulated kernels of life. They hang like an old man who falls asleep in a chair and leans forward his chin to his chest.
If I think about the image too long, I know it precursors me. Eventually, I will nod too. But until then, why not hold my head brave, proud and confident against the wind? Stand tall, be bright and shine in my own youth.
And so in every cold, muddy Chicago spring, I pull aside the dry stalks of winter to find the first knuckled-headed growth of my sunflowers because they remind me there is another season in the sun ahead.
