When I was a kid, my grandmother worked at the Orem Public Library. Visiting grandma at work was always an adventure. All those books and characters – the smells, the quiet. One of the best perks of having a librarian grandmother was that when books were discarded, she would bring them to us. As a result, we had a large library of children’s books most with an occasional missing page or hidden crayon masterpiece. In fact, I attribute much of my love of reading to that library and to our mandatory reading time on summer afternoons. Back in the days with no video games, no computers and very little TV. The Boxcar Children, The Hardy Boys and Dr. Seuss were practically members of our family.
One of my favorite books was The Boy Who Ate Flowers by Nancy Sherman with illustrations by Nancy Carroll. I remember connecting to it at a young age. An odd kid, different than others, found something that made him happy and was allowed to indulge in it. I very much related to the main character, Peter. Several years ago, when moving East, I managed to find the copy of the book – even more tattered – and it has travelled with me.
The other day, for some reason, for the first time in years, I thought about it and pulled it off my bookshelf for a re-read. So much of it was just as I had remembered. Peter didn’t like oatmeal and at one meal refused to eat it. So his parents, being somewhat typical parents, told him he would have the same bowl of oatmeal for every meal until he ate it. Well, the poor kid went hungry until while walking in the garden, he saw the sweet smelling, beautiful flowers and decided to sample a lovely white Chrysanthemum. Well, the Chrysanthemum proved a gateway drug and soon he became a fast flower addict (who wouldn’t?).
For me, the remarkable part was that surprisingly, his parents supported his new eating habits. In fact, they sent away to France for a chef, Algernon, who specialized in cooking with flowers. Together, Peter and Algernon created countless delicious dishes from the flowers of the garden and the world. After Peter tired of their dishes, Algernon agreed to create a floral culinary masterpiece – he had flowers brought from around the globe in a long parade of the exotic. He cooked and cooked and cooked. Television crews arrived. The whole world sat on the edge of their seats waiting for Peter to take the first bite of Algernon’s masterpiece.
And, just as the bowl was placed before him, just as he was about to take a bite - - - He sneezed – and suddenly things changed. Instead of biting into the creation in front of him, he looked to his mother - - - and asked for oatmeal.
Reading it now – some thirty plus years later – I am aware of the relatively manipulative nature of the book. Or perhaps that’s just my bias. I suppose we could see it as a positive lesson that all roads lead back to the familiar – to home – to oatmeal. But for me, the ending takes away the magic of the book. Here I was, a boy struggling with his own difference who finds a story about another boy who is different. But, instead of shaming him or berating him for his difference, the people around him support that difference. Acknowledge it as part of him. Celebrate it. Help him learn more about it. How beautiful and amazing, the path these parents take.
However, then, in the end, he ends up tossing away his difference and joining in with the average, mundane, oatmeal crowd. Of his own free will. A future of oatmeal. And not just that – I can remember, even as a kid, feeling the horror at the realization that Peter never even sampled Algernon’s masterpiece. All of that work – all of that potential! And not even a taste. How was that possible? He could always have an occasional bowl of oatmeal – but why not taste?! There was no possibility of harm – Algernon would not poison him – his parents would not judge him differently . . . Why, Peter, why?!
I am curious how Peter’s future life would have been different had he tasted it . . . sampled . . . dipped his pinky in and touched it to his tongue . . .
