Dandelions

Dandelions were so pretty to my five-year-old eyes. Vibrant yellow, poking persistantly from green (or brown...) grass, they never failed to perk up an otherwise plain, boring lawn. Twisting them into crowns, and smooshing them against my hands made my fingers glow yellow.

Fast-forward twenty-three years, and dandelions are no longer beautiful. They are a menace, a menace akin to meth in our neighborhoods. Perhaps not that bad. But I bet under a bridge somewhere, someone who can't afford meth is smoking dandelions.

I took my dog on a walk this evening. My cigar-smoking neighbor, who I am slighly afraid of, was out washing his car. "Evening," I said. He nodded at me. "Looks like the dandelion crop is nice and fertile this year," I said, gesturing to the neighbor on the other side of his house.

"Ugh," he grumbled. "I can't keep the damn things out of my yard!"

I smiled in commaraderie and brought the dog inside.

When did this happen? This invasion? I'm not talking about the invasion of dandelions in my yard, but rather...the invasion of adulthood into my worldview.

I went out front and spent an hour digging the dandelions from my front yard. Lest my cigar-smoking neighbor start to have it in for me.

Back in my kitchen, I drank a glass of 7up and rubbed the ache from my digging shoulder. I looked out the back slider at my yard, and noticed a few dandelions poking their heads up.

We've got to make a lot of concessions to adulthood. Conform to societal expectations. That's the way it should be; that's what keeps civility and order in the world.

If I leave a few dandelions in my backyard, just for a little color, I don't see the harm. My dog will probably eat them anyway.