Thistles are visceral.

My first meeting with a thistle was when one skewered my foot while exploring a meadow. Hornet? Bear? Shark!? Phaser-Set to-Stun?

(In my ten-year-old mind, all of these were plausible.)

Big brother was nearby so I suppressed my tears. Only after I was sure that my foot was still attached to my leg I looked around. There they were, hiding everywhere the amber waves. Prehistoric purple heads atop a stalks of green medieval war armor.

I am sure that day I felt the same way I do when I see them today. A mix of awe and fear.

With tears in check, I limped back to the vacation farmhouse like a civil war soldier. Mom was there, hanging kitchen towels on the line. Fifty mind-years later, it was a Norman Rockwell painting. (The reality of the day is there was likely subtext for Mom; Wondering why she did not ask if the farm-at-the-edge-of-nowhere had a washer ‘n dryer.)

I told Mom my war story. She scrubbed the days adventures off my foot and bandaged the wound like a battlefield nurse.

‘O Thistles. I love Thistles — their flowers are so beautiful. Tho’ they do grow in places they are not supposed to.”

I saw thistles differently from that day forward. The rest of that two weeks vacation at Meadowlark Farm we devised ways to gather the most beautiful thistles for a vase. Certainly there were more scars, but it was then I learned about their beauty, and how strong they were to grow from a sliver-sized seed to a mighty warrior of the field.

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It was not until 30 years later in Glasgow that I learned that the thistle was the national flower of Scotland. The legend traces back to the 13th Century at the Battle of Largs. A Norse army intent on conquest, made landfall at night with the plan to ambush the sleeping Scottish Clansmen.

“In order to be as quiet as possible, the Norsemen had removed their shoes. However as they crept across the countryside, one of them stepped onto a thorny thistle. His cry of pain roused the Scots, and the warriors rose up and defeated the invaders.” R.M. Hall, The National Trust for Scotland.

Four hundred years later the king established the “Order of the Thistle” as the highest honor Scotland can bestow on an individual. Their motto, Nemo me impune lacessit, ‘No one provokes me with impunity.’

My guess is my Mom never new these stories. She simply had a connection to thistles.

It was this same connection Mom and her granddaughter share. The toughness and beauty of a thistle — worthy of respect, legends and tattoos.

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Likely your first experience with a thistle evokes a visceral response too. And its memory not soon forgotten.

Thorns hidden in plain sight on plants thriving wherever their seed landed. And yes, if you find them in your garden, it’s a bit of a race to corral them before they seed.

But time it right. Let a few top out. Cut them carefully and put them in a vase. And definitely pull them out from the roots — burn them if you must.

But always make sure you remember;

Nemo me impune lacessit