[Cynthia Herron] Sometimes, You Just Gotta Laugh

Yep. There they were again. Tall, regal, and practically smirking, those white-crowned devils mocked me.

I slugged back a swig of coffee and marched toward the kitchen. “I guess you saw them.”

“Saw what?”

Oh, my. Didn’t he know?

Didn’t Hubby realize that all his hard work was for nothing? That they were not only back, but they’d multiplied in droves? This morning we were drowning…again. Drowning in dandelions!

For almost twenty years, we’d tried every treatment, poison, and weed scalpel known to man. We’d also fertilized, picked, pruned, and babied our yard for at least that many years. It was ridiculous how much we’d spent on lawn care.

Nothing helped, worked, or held promise.

“Well, I’m done—done trying to coddle and cajole this three-acre patch into something beautiful. We’ve replanted every flower, tree, and shrub on this property because of tornadoes and ice storms, but you think anything can kill those blasted dandelions? Nooo. Nothing can keep a good weed down.”

Hubby grinned over the sports section of the newspaper. “Dear, this was pastureland. What would you expect?”

Well.

I’d expect something to work. I’d expect pastureland to quit being pastureland once it was primed and cultivated into something new. Like—a yard, for instance.

Our previous neighbors didn’t seem to have the problem. In fact, when they lived here, I’d never seen one little, ol’ weed—much less a wayward dandelion—sprout its round, fuzzy head in their meticulously groomed yard.

Maybe if we, too, walked the perimeter of our property four times a day like they had, we’d sniff out the scoundrels (the weeds, not the neighbors) before they multiplied. We had, after all, bought a weed-picker-thingy for just that purpose.

But pulling the dandelions up by their roots hadn’t worked either. And frankly, we didn’t have the time or inclination to search and destroy each and every winking menace.

As a last-ditch effort, for many weeks, Hubby had tried some new lawn treatment. More money down the drain—er—dandelion pit. Now, there were not only more of those suckers—there were hundreds!

“Good grief. The more we try to kill ’em, the louder they laugh at us.” It sounded lame, even to me.

“There. That’s the spirit, dear.” My husband saluted me with his OJ. “You know what they say. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. And laughter’s good for what ails us.”

“So? We should skip outside and laugh at our sea of dandelions?” I suppose it couldn’t hurt. We’d tried everything else.

And then I shook my head, and laugh, I did.

It could always be worse. At least it wasn’t cow patties that graced our yard. Those were in the next field over. The one that smelled so heavenly on a warm, summer day. *wink*

Hmm.  I guess I’d rather drown in dandelions than be adrift in manure.

But the question that tumbled around in my brain… Do cows eat dandelions?

Hope Hubby didn’t get any hare-brained ideas.

***

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