I used to pick dandelions for my mom when I was little because I thought they were pretty, I could never understand that they were weeds. When my dad would take weed-killer to their sprouts in the yard, I objected. "They're weeds, we don't want them in our yard," they'd tell me. "But...they're pretty...," I justified. I would spend the rest of my childhood springs blowing the dandelion puffs all-over our yard and neighborhood in an attempt to save my
flowers from extinction. I was certain that nothing so pretty could really be that bad. Everybody just needed to give my dandelions a second chance, so that the pretty flowers that made me so happy, could prove them wrong.
Once I was finally old enough to understand my childhood conundrum, I decided that I'd always blow dandelion puffs, no matter how old I got, in the hopes of finding a new dandelion someday. Someday, I'll even let my daughter do the same :)
“It gives one a sudden start in going down a barren, stony street, to see upon a narrow strip of grass, just within the iron fence, the radiant dandelion, shining in the grass, like a spark dropped from the sun.”--Henry Ward Beecher
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