From Walt Whitman to weed killers
Tis the season of rebirth and renewal. Winter loses its grip, spring settles in. And we say a hearty welcome back — to the robins energetically scouring for worms, to the colorful flowers shattering the months of monochromatic monotony, to the ocean breeze that suddenly lacks any bite, to the longer hours of precious daylight.
And to the dandelions.
Yes, my lawn has dandelions. I’m not proud. But I’m not exactly ashamed, either.
The thing is: When I see them, as I do every day now, I can’t decide whether to utter a curse or compose an ode.
Any intelligent discussion of dandelions — and let’s admit right now that very few discussions about dandelions are intelligent — must begin by acknowledging that our feelings toward them are utterly arbitrary.
We demonize the dandelion. It’s our most hated plant — unless you live next door to someone with running bamboo and no impenetrable barrier between your properties.
But why the revulsion? Sunflowers are yellow. Chrysanthemums, black-eyed susans, roses, tulips, dahlias, lilies, daffodils and daisies are yellow.
So are dandelions. And dandelions are flowers.
But that’s science-speak, isn’t it? We know what dandelions really are, don’t we?
Weeds.
At this point, it’s important to note that that particular pejorative is a 20th-century American invention. It probably coincided with our fetishization of lawns — one of the principal props of our sacred property values and a way to signal to neighbors that we’re working hard and doing our part to keep our community looking good. Lawns, we all know, are supposed to be grass and only grass, green and only one shade of green (as opposed to mine, which is several shades of green, but that’s another story).
Elsewhere in the world, dandelions were and sometimes still are renowned for their beauty. They were a common garden flower in Europe. Japanese horticultural societies celebrated them. Rapturous poems have been written about them.
Long Island’s own Walt Whitman praised the dandelion: “ . . . innocent, golden, calm as the dawn / The spring’s first dandelion shows its trustful face.”
Nowadays, we reach for the weedkiller.
But have you ever examined a dandelion, up close? Even its white puff ball flower — a metamorphosis even more despised than its yellow predecessor — is its own form of beautiful, looking like a geodesic dome of crystals and filaments.
And we’re not even talking about the dandelion’s practical value. The leaves can be eaten, and are loaded with vitamins. Its use in medicines, tonics and cures for a wide variety of ailments goes back millennia. Herbalists today use it as a diuretic.
I want to like them. But I know what the neighbors think.
I used to spend hours upon hours on my knees removing dandelions as far down to the root as possible, only to see them spring up again days later. Lawn chemicals were out of the question, with three daughters and their friends playing in the grass and the sole-source aquifer that provides our drinking water underneath.
Now my wife and I mostly just wait for them to rise, then rip the tops off in a Sisyphus-like pursuit that at least is quick and easy.
But sometimes, we give up and do nothing at all. And sometimes, it’s really not that bad.
One person sees the cockroach of fauna, another sees a master of survival.
Whitman welcomed them as “Simple and fresh and fair from winter’s close emerging.”
I’m working on not wincing.
Michael Dobie is a member of Newsday’s editorial board.
Michael Dobie is a retired member of the Newsday editorial board.
