Spring is in the air
Many people feel that their minds are shackled by the cold, wet weather of winter. They stare haplessly out the window at the driving rains, insistent sleet, pelting hail and drifting snow while wishing for warmer climes. They fight the facts by setting their thermostats at 70 degrees and closing the drapes.
I, on the other hand, try to appreciate each day for what it brings. Torrential rains raise my boat. Sheets of sleet rose the complexion. Hail is hallowed if caught in an open mouth, and snow mutes visual perception and deadens sound better than earplugs. Yet, for all my acceptance and joy in the seasons, there comes a time each year that causes my fists to clench, my jaw to lock and all mirth to be swept aside. I lose sleep, peck at my meals and grumble like an earthquake: It all happens when I espy the flowering of the Deathstar, more commonly known as the dandelion.
As a kid I found it strange that adults referred to some plants as "weeds," while others were flowers. It had the same ring as the word "varmint," which applied to small animals which had failed to cultivate affection with humans. The terms seemed arbitrary and capricious and I recoiled when I realized just how much poison we are prepared to use to ensure that our yards sport no "weeds" or "varmints."
When we moved to Ashland I became an instant pacifist in the war on weeds, believing that all life is to be respected. That first year in town tested my patients as mosquitoes became too bloated to fly after feasting on my generous arm. While trying to be one with a dozen buzzing insect buzzards I looked from the porch to spot a single dandelion flowering in the grass. I thought nothing of it and noticed in a time-span that seemed reduced to minutes, it bloomed into a white ball of seeds which blew down wind like fallout from a nuclear detonation.
It seemed that in only a few days new dandelions flowered and quickly launched their seeds, guided only by the force and direction of the prevailing winds. My smile of contentment gradually became a contained grimace as I realized that if the prolific dandelion went unchecked, it would soon dominate my yard. It was not lost on me that my neighbors at the time kept a zero tolerance attitude toward dandelions, resulting in pristine and well-manicured lawns that pretty much define perfection in America. Armed with a new definition of "weed" and resolute that there were not going to be goats, chickens, abandoned cars or dandelions running amuck in my front yard, I grabbed a weed knife and began a labor of hate, slowly rolling back a parachuting army of weeds that threatened my standing, for what it was, in the neighborhood.
One afternoon, while on my knees extricating a patch of the little yellow devils, a fellow long-haired hippie happened to walk by. He observed my merciless methods and cried out that I was a murderer. After a lengthily lecture which brought me to a pause, he angrily Birken-flopped down the sidewalk with his palms pressed together. He was either praying for a cheeseburger or my demise.
He was a vegetarian.
I thought about what he said and had to admit that his argument had merit, yet I was not going to let my property be overrun by anything other than what I wanted. Accordingly, I set in motion a plan so nefarious and camouflaged that I would be never again be accused of slaughtering the helpless and plucking the unsuspecting. I waited until dark and slipped out the door dressed like a ninja, though one armed not with throwing stars and a samurai sword, but a bottle of Death to Dandelions. The results were clear, but the method unapparent. The neighbors were pleased and I went unindicted. The only kink occurred when a friend appeared bearing a gift of a bottle of organic dandelion wine.
I killed my own crop.
(Lance was last seen cart wheeling across his yard in full camouflage while throwing knives with great accuracy at a post, apparently getting ready for spring. You may suggest more gentle yard care at lance@journalist.com)
