Djelloul Marbrook

Every spring a grand obsession to suppress the lowly dandelion berserks Americans. I’ve never understood it. I love dandelions, their indomitable sauciness. Perhaps Americans are offended by them in the way they might be by flecks of dandruff on a black canvas by Robert Motherwell. Perhaps dandelions offend the purist in them. To me they redress the unrelieved boredom of the greensward.

I’m perfectly willing to tend my roses, to fertilize trees, shrubbery and flowers, but why I should poison the beloved earth to ruthlessly track and kill the wondrously complex dandelion is beyond me. They cheer me as much as birds at their feeders outside my kitchen window in winter. I understand why golfers despise them, about as much, that is, as I understand golfers.

There’s a grass seed advertisement running on television now in which a woman brightly chirps, We don’t like dandelions. Perhaps it was the dark mood I was in, but the comment reminded me of all those hot topics, like gay marriage, our society uses to divert itself from the simple task of treating each other decently, a task from which no religion could honorably dissent.

I understand why they’re not the favorite flowers of baseball and tennis players, since they don’t abide rules. But as a gardener I’d much rather spend money on another rose bush than walk run around executing these guest stars scattered on the grass, to borrow a phrase from Omar Khayyam.

—DM