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.