Flower R.I.P.

“I got a letter this morning,
how y’all reckon it read?
It say, ‘hurry, hurry, boy, the gal you love is dead.’”
Death Letter Blues – Son House

We all saw it coming. Flower’s dead. Not TV dead like when they kill off your favorite character on “The Young and the Restless,” not dead like Bobby on “Dallas” dead, but really truly, dead, dead.

Or maybe she isn’t. Maybe it is more like soap opera dead. Maybe she became this diva, and her agent was demanding a gazillion dollars an episode, and a bowlful of Kalahari caviar, say dung beetles, in her dressing room every morning, white ones only. Or maybe she got offered the role of a lifetime on National Geographic, and jumped networks. It could happen.

If I were feeling particularly mean, I’d post that as a rumor on Meerkat Chat, and likely get flamed from here to hell and back.

People are hurting. “Rezin” cried for an hour after the episode. “Marci41” is still crying. “Bitsy6365” can’t stop crying. “Mrssilentwarrior” wonders how to break the news to her daughter, who is sure to be haunted by the vision of Flowers’s death for years to come.

Some say they’ll stop watching "Meerkat Manor" altogether, that this season’s body count was just too high, first Carlos (infected meerkat bite) and pups Len (goshawk entree), and Squiggy (poor little gimp never stood a chance). Then Mozart’s babies got eaten by their Aunt Kinkajou, (who can forget the bereaved mother finding a single gnawed and bloody paw in the sand), and now Flower herself. Others have found more creative ways to cope with their grief.

The East Coast Meerkat Society is no longer taking orders for the stained glass Flower Memorial Suncatcher due to overwhelming demand. But if you hurry you can still get the “2008 Flower, Her Story” desk calendar or a copy of “Flower’s Book, Remembering When.” The folks at Animal Planet have set up a fund for memorial donations in Flower’s name to the Fellow Earthlings’ Wildlife Center, and “Melbacake” suggests lighting a virtual candle for her. Several fans have posted heart-wenching video tributes on YouTube.

Seriously, wasn’t it better back in the day when instead of killing “Dr. Dan” off on “As the World Turns”, he was just replaced with another actor. No warning, no explanation needed. (“Nice face, Dr. Dan. That nose was worth every penny.” “Been on a diet Dr. Dan? Lookin’ good!”) After a week or two we just accepted it. And let’s face it, few among us would have noticed one week if “Flower” wasn’t, well, “Flower.” I’m not saying all meerkats look remarkably alike, but there you have it. And wouldn’t that have been better than giving hideous nightmares to millions of innocent children, or watching those ratings drop like the ball in Times Square on New Year’s Eve?

Of course the producers seem to have that base covered too, or at least they've come up with something to make the best of the situation. And while their plan to release a feature film on Flower's life sometime next year doesn’t exactly qualify as boldly exploiting her death, it does, however, convey just the slightest whiff of James Cameron asking for a minute of silence for the victims of the Titanic in his acceptance speech for the Best Picture Oscar.


Let me stop for a minute and assure you that nobody feels worse about Flower than I, (although, on second thought, there are probably quite a few who do). But be assured, I do feel bad. She was a noble beast, a true cultural icon, the matriarch of a mob of animals made for anthropomorphosis – cuter than prairie dogs, a whole lot cuddlier than honey bees (I’m betting that Bee Movie is so going to bomb), and, when they stand on their hind legs they look amazingly human, if you discount the body hair and multiple nipples. And how like us they were. Flower was the 21st century everywoman, reigning over an extended dysfunctional family living together in a great big burrow park in the Kalahari. They cheat. They steal. They gorge themselves on poisonous insects. They join gangs and tag their neighbor’s burrows with urine. They eat their young. My guess is you look far enough beneath all that fur – tattoos and a pack of Camel filters. And as for what really happened to Shakespeare in season two, I’m thinking drive-by, that or second hand cigarette smoke.

And, frankly, how do I say this delicately, Flower was a slut. This mother of 30 (or more) cheated on main baby daddy Zaphod with Houdini, quite possibly passing off the latter’s babies as Zaphod’s own. She ran off and abandoned her pups on more than one occasion, (guess child welfare services was busy with Britney), threw out her own daughter, Mozart, twice, once forcing her to leave a litter of infants behind, and seriously considered eating her own grandkits. That she was ultimately bitten by a cobra, no surprise there. After all she is a member of a species of mongoose, (Remember Rikki Tikki Tavi and those bad ass cobras in "The Jungle Book”?), with a brain the size of a peanut and the sexual mores of a $20 hooker in front of the Catholic church on Easter Sunday morning. Did you really think she was going to die a peaceful death in an elder hospice surrounded by her children and grandchildren?

I understand they gave her an appropriate and respectful send off. I’m hoping they prettied her up in a little satin lined casket and held a wake so all the other meerkats could pay their respects. Afterward they’d retire to the warren for a little reception. The Zappas would bring a lizard pate, and the Commandoes a grasshopper and scorpion surprise. Zaphod would’ve drunk too much and had to be carried, in tears, to his burrow, closely attended by the recently widowed Kinkajou, (who is also his stepdaughter), while daughters Rocket Dog and Mozart got into a squabble over who was getting the company china.

That’s the way we would have done it down south, where the funeral feast is a time honored tradition. It is largely an on-going orgy of “covered dishes” commencing the moment the deceased deceases and continuing until the day after the interment -- a sometimes week long ritual that must harken back to the old Appalachian custom of sin eating, although in this instance we’re all doing the eating, and enjoying it too, if that could be possible given the circumstances. (Thus the true meaning of the words “comfort food.”) As I’ve mentioned before, we were Methodist and nobody does a funeral like the Methodists, except maybe the Episcopalians, and only because they usually serve “punch.” Gayden Metcalfe and Charlotte Hays observe in their most excellent, must read, book, “Being Dead is No Excuse, The Official Southern Ladies Guide to Hosting the Perfect Funeral,” that the casserole is the most characteristically Methodist death dish, and they are so right. Women of my mother's generation used to keep a stash of pre-made casseroles in the freezer so when somebody died they could just pop one in the oven and have it to the family before the body was even cold.

For Flower’s wake I would make my sweet corn pudding casserole. The original recipe came from an old McCormick spices cookbook, one of the first I ever bought. Like flower it’s a classic. She deserves nothing less.

SWEET CORN PUDDING
(Too good to save just for funerals)

4 eggs
1/2 cup milk
3 cans cream style corn
2 cans whole kernel corn, drained
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter or margarine, melted
1/3 cup sugar
3 tablespoons arrowroot (or cornstarch)
1/1/2 teaspoons seasoned salt (Season-All)
1/4 cup chopped onions
1/2 teaspoon ground mustard

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Beat eggs and milk in large bowl. Add corn and butter.

Mix sugar arrowroot, seasoned salt and ground mustard, add to corn mixture. Stir in onions.

Pour into buttered 3-quart baking dish.

Bake 1 hour until top is lightly browned. Stir once, midway through cooking.

Serves 6 to 8, unless you give in to the temptation of making a meal of it. For dinner music I’d suggest Cassandra Wilson’s cover of “Death Letter,” much more soulful than the Son House version. Enjoy with a bottle of Pinot Gris, and raise a glass to Flower.