Dandelions and Cattails

Dear Ian:
It's February and there is not a dandelion in sight. No matter. They will be here soon enough, plaguing weekend gardeners before they know it. I have never really understood why the dandelion is such a hated plant. They are hearty and strong and grow just about everywhere on the planet. They add a bit of color to an otherwise undisturbed field of green. Is that such a crime? Why are we so attached to perfect swatches of undisturbed color? Isn't a blue sky made more exciting by the addition of a few billowy clouds?

Anyhow, dandelions. Sooner or later, someone is going to rub one under your chin. I haven't the slightest clue where this tradition comes from, but I am rather sure that a few druids standing around Stonehenge waiting for the Spring festival to begin thought that it was a damn fine idea, or trick, to rub the petals under a friends chin.

The myth is something along the lines of "if it leaves a yellow trace" then somebody loves you. Or you love somebody. I can't really remember, and that is not the point, as it is rather certain that you are loved or love somebody. Really, it is nearly impossible to not have some of the flower's yellow rub off on you. Consequently, you are going to wander around with yellow stuff hanging off your chin, like you just enjoyed a mustard dog at the ballgame, no matter what.

Let them rub. They are your friends, and they are saying they love you. Return the favor.

The other thing about dandelions, and their cousins the cattails, is that near the end of their lives, they give up their seeds in the most spectacular of ways.

Your mom, uncle Jim and I used to love to take the gray haired dandelions and make wishes on them. Just like blowing candles out on a birthday cake, if you managed to send all of a dandelions's seeds to the four winds in a single blow, your wish would come true. I am not sure if this works or not as I usually wished for more dandelions, which seemed pretty much like a foregone conclusion anyhow.

Cattails were a bit more of a boyish toy. I don't quite remember if your mom ever took part in any of the cattail games, but as boys we would cut the stalks, in late season, to sword length and fence with them. Dodging and parrying like a couple of characters out of The Lord of the Rings or maybe Lord of the Flies not really sure, we swatted at one another until the cattail would inevitably burst and scatter the cottony seeds everywhere.

On windy days, we would watch as the tiny "parachuters" were carried away by the breeze to hopefully land somewhere where young boys played.