Spring pounced on us early this year bringing with it a handbag full of spastic weather, abundant wildlife and the worst of all, dandelions.
I’m not one for fertilizing, or weed spraying. I believe anything that can be mowed should be considered lawn. An all natural mindset. Well, ok, you got me, I’m just lazy. Be that as it may, I love mowing the lawn. I’m no Hank Hill, but I like the way a lawn looks freshly mowed. In fact I prefer the lawn to be longer before cutting so that the difference is more pronounced.
Nothing smells better than a freshly mown lawn. Also, there is a plant growing in my yard that smells like fresh laundry when I mow it down. So, like Bits and Bites, every part of my lawn is a whole new ballgame of olfactory delights.
Except those damn Dandelions.
I swear, as soon as I start the mower, they lie down. I mow over them, look back and there they are, popped up and mocking me. If they had hips and lips, they’d be swaying in a taunting circle while repeating the mantra, “neener, neener, neener, you missed me”. Don’t let their sunshiny demeanour fool you, they are living, thinking, evil beings.
I wheel the tractor around and park it over the offending lion. HA! Take that. Only to pull away and find the lion rising to it’d full height, unscathed. Sure I manage to mow some of them into itty, bitty green mulch, but they are the plant version of a Hydra. For every one I mow, two more pop up.
As a result, my immaculate, mowed lawn, makes my house look abandoned due to the forest of Dandelion stems.
I will not be reduced to stooping and pulling them out one by one. Why? Well, let me paint you a picture. On my lawn tractor, it takes me the better part of three hours to mow the uncontoured part of my lawn. Then I have to switch to the push mower to finish the rest, another two to three hours. That’s a lot of lawn, of which the Dandelion squatters now occupy at least 40%.
I’m sure there is someone out there deranged enough and with legs and a back in much better condition than mine, that would tackle that chore, but I’m not one of them.
For now, I’ll sit in my lawn chair on the front lawn, wearing my dirty, stained sleeveless shirt, Bermuda shorts and flip-flop, surrounded by a bevy of empty beer cans watching the Dandelion Ballet.
If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, I say.
One, Two, three, deboule, dessous, eleve. And again.