Dandy Dandy-lions

The Compass - - EDITORIAL - Harold Wal­ters

Of course that ol’ poet Billy Wordsworth saw a host of daf­fodils, not dan­de­lions. Daf­fodils are glo­ri­ously yel­low in their own right and they wave nicely in a breeze of wind but they sim­ply do not warm the cock­les — what­ever they are — of my heart as do dan­de­lions.

Dan­de­lions — may they never fade from this earth, may the species never die.

As you kindly read th­ese scrib­bles, I hope you are in a place that al­lows you to raise your eyes, gaze off into the dis­tance at some field — or closer to home, your own green lawn — and be­hold a crowd of golden dan­de­lions. The sight should set your cock­les all a’ glow.

“Harry, my own dandy-lion,” says Dear­est Duck, my life’s fairest posy. “You re­al­ize most peo­ple think dan­de­lions are weeds.” “Sadly so, my Duck,” say I. And, b’ys, I con­fess there was a time when I waged war on those tena­cious plants, those har­bin­gers of sum­mer. Truly. When Daddy’s Boy was wee and dan­de­lions sprung from our lawn like an in­fes­ta­tion of pis­sybed weeds, I paid him by the buck­et­ful to yank them from the sod. An en­ter­pris­ing sea­sonal worker, Daddy’s Boy kept our lawn more or less pris­tine and kept coins jin­gling in his pock­ets. And I sus­pect he pulled the wool over my eyes oc­ca­sion­ally be­cause the host of dan­de­lions My Im­per­fect Slant on ad­ja­cent neigh­bour­hood lawns thinned as well.

I have since re­pented for cast­ing Daddy’s Boy in the role of such a wan­ton slayer, such a re­lent­less de­stroyer of dan­de­lions. I pray he has for­given Dear Old Dad.

“Harry, it was hardly as ex­treme as you make it sound,” says Dear­est Duck who al­ways felt that I, not Daddy’s Boy should have been on his knees root­ing dan­de­lions from the clay. “P’raps not, my Duck,” say I. As I aged, as win­ter af­ter end­less win­ter of dis­con­tent passed, each one seem­ing longer than the pre­vi­ous I came to rec­og­nize dan­de­lions for what they truly are — a gift of hope from the Cre­ator of the Uni­verse.

At the end of an es­pe­cially dreary win­ter my soul was shriv­elled up like a frig­gin’ de­hy­drated prune and none of my Happy Med­i­ca­tions — not even Ten­sion Tamer Tea — was ca­pa­ble of perk­ing me up. Sure, Dear­est Duck’s frozen choco­late chip cook­ies tasted bit­ter on my tongue.

Time for an il­lus­tra­tive bib­li­cal aside.

Saul, I be­lieve it was, a noted tor­men­tor of the Lord’s dis­ci­ples was dodg­ing down the road to Da­m­as­cus prob’ly smack­ing a fist into an open palm and imag­in­ing whose nog­gin he’d knock next.

Sud­denly, lo and — in bib­li­cal fash­ion — be­hold, a ce­les­tial light brighter than a three-bat­tery flash­light shone into Saul’s eyes, so star­tling him that he stum­bled and fell flat on his arse.

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