By Frank Zoretich
My apartment is one of five in an old house that has a back yard with about 830 square feet of lawn. The lawn’s deeply rooted dandelions have thrived unmolested through many decades, except for an occasional mow by the landlord. But early this spring, when the first few yellow blossoms showed themselves, I declared war on dandelions. I consider it to be a battle of wits.So far, I’m winning.
My grudge against dandelions goes back to when I was a kid in Cleveland. On many summer days perfect for other boyish activities, Dad handed me the long, fork-like tool to dig them out. Now, of course, I realize the recurrent assignment sprang from his own odd sense of humor. I hated the chore. Worse, it was never ending – all my child labor failed to keep even more dandelions from sprouting – either from some sliver of root I’d left underground or because of seeds wafting in from neighboring lawns.
Every day for months now, since I plucked those first dandelion blossoms out of the backyard lawn, I’ve stepped outside to patrol the lawn up and down and back and forth crosswise, stooping not only to wrench their hapless heads off, but also scanning for any about-to-bloom buds.
Ken, who lives in the house’s basement apartment, has suggested I just conquer by spreading a chemical weed-killer on the lawn. But that seems unfair to my opponent. I don’t desire mere scorched-earth eradication. As difficult as it may be for the yellow-petaled invaders to acknowledge, I want them to know they’ve finally met an implacable foe.
I figure that dandelions put a lot of their precious energy into producing buds, flowers, and the subsequent puffballs of seeds for the next generation. So consistently denying them such offspring must certainly instill a sense of futility – which they no doubt communicate among themselves through means unknown to me – and will eventually convince them, exhausted and forlorn, to give up the fight. It’s a long-term strategy.
At first, I gathered dozens of fistfuls of blossoms and buds with each daily (and sometimes twice or thrice daily) sweep of the lawn. I’d have to scrub a coating of yellow juice from my fingers and palms after each foray. The dandelions, clever things, soon began to hide their buds closer to the ground. But as my single-minded focus sharpened with time, it became easier to spot the buds, even as the grass grew taller, even when they were partly covered by the dandelion leaves.
By the end of April, however, I could find only one or two fistfuls of blossoms and buds every day. Then I left town for a week, despite the danger that I might have become overconfident of victory. I could only imagine what might go on out there during my absence: Something – in botanical terms – wildly sexual.
When I returned, I sought-and-destroyed only the few blossoms yet waving on high “leggy” stalks to grab at sunlight above the now seriously overgrown grass. Buds were scarce, too.
So I left town for another week. And when I returned, again, I discovered that an outside force had intervened: The landlord had mowed the lawn! It was completely free of blossoms!
Since then, just one or two have dared to show themselves every other day or so. Pluck! Pluck!
Now, at full summer, I can often step outside and spot no new blossoms. (Only one blossom has managed to puff into seeds since the war began. I carried it carefully to the yard-waste bin so none could take flight.) And although I’ve been carefully searching, I’ve found no fresh buds.
Does this mean I’ve won? Hardly. I know that dandelions are perennial. I know that I’m just one man against an army of allegedly relentless intruders.
The plants are still there, gathering strength for another assault.
But I can be patient, too. Very, very patient. It’s your move, Taraxacum officinale. I’m waiting.
Frank Zoretich, a Seattle writer and editor, enjoys the outdoors.
