Dandelions

Today I am grateful for dandelions.  I know they’re a weed, but they are also a sure sign of Spring.

I can remember being about four or five and picking my mom a large bunch of bright yellow dandelions.  She would accept those “weeds” as if they were roses, putting them in a round, brown-opaque, bean jar and putting them in the place of honor in the center of the gray Formica kitchen table.  The arrangement looked like a perfect yellow ball on top of a brown ball and I can see it as if it was ten minutes ago.  My mom also showed me how to take a dandelion head and smush it into the palm of my hand to make “butter”, and how to blow a seeded head while making a wish. 

My dad was not a lover.  He preferred going to battle with the little yellow beasts.  He’d spray and dig and poke and do everything but pluck them out with a tweezers to try and get rid of the “nasty weeds with roots to China!”. . .his words.  If he was moderately successful, with only one or two left and neighbors did nothing to get rid of theirs, he’d go berserk.  I swear he’d do a midnight spray session on their lawns just so the buggers wouldn’t invade ours.

My boys had a little trouble grasping the concept of picking flowers for me.  They usually popped the little yellow heads off without leaving any stem at all.  No worries.  I’d float those knobs in a bowl, in a jelly jar, in the middle of my kitchen table. . .and the torch was passed on.

I am very grateful for dandelions, weeds or not, and the beauty they splatter across empty fields, bringing the sweet memories of my youth with them.