Dandelion Flux
An
essay by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com
Photo by Scott Watson
www.printroom.com/pro/swatsonphoto
Some say keep your head down.
Any situation with the potential for competition and conflict tends to divide us between those willing to “stick your neck out” and those who prefer the less-risky “keep your head down” approach.
I think of this when I look at dandelions, and I remember something my 7th-grade science teacher said.
That was back when only the most progressive public-school educators dared to explain the more politically sensitive applications of astute observation, reasoned hypothesis, and rigorous testing. Because my teacher was fascinated by how species adapt to change, and how new strains diverge as old ones sometimes die off, he suggested we spare a few minutes every summer to observe that obstinate bloom known, when stripped of its common expletives, simply as . . . the dandelion.
Suburban dandelion sightings had been rare in the decade prior, at least in our ’hood, but the past few years had seen an explosive proliferation of these determined invaders. Suburban lawns accustomed to shrugging off nuisance incursions from the nefarious likes of mere crabgrass suddenly found themselves overrun by an onslaught of those weedly blossoms in bright yellow, a shade we Michigan alumni call “maize.” In even the smallest patch of grass, thousands of one-bloom dandelion stalks would shoot up in a matter of days, generally about 6-8 inches high.
Strikingly beautiful in neutral context, they appeared as the haughty little progeny of Sol, smiling mini-suns boasting petal coronas; but to the green-carpet obsessives, they must have looked like battalions of occupying forces, foot soldiers steadfast in their conquest of foreign lands. Given the dearth of species-specific chemical and natural weapons at the time, harried lawn-tenders usually found it easiest to mow incessantly, the better to behead the enemy and thus prevent its spread of demon seed.
Of course, that whole spreading-seeds thing is pretty much the business of dandelions.
I mean, you find a good spot, squeeze out the competition, put down some roots, crank up the photosynthesizer, and lure some opportunistic pollinators, then put all your energy into creating a fragile seed-ball to be scattered by the winds—and you’ve pretty much succeeded at being a weed. Managing to frustrate the beejezus out of a two-legged sod-lover, well, that’s just gravy. For the dandelion, though, the risky part is sticking their necks out, a blatant ploy to lap up buttery sunshine and shout a lookee-lookee yoo-hoo to brigades of buzzy bugs and bumbly bees.
Of course, that’s when the lawnmowers would get them.
My teacher predicted that we twelve-year-olds could, in our lifetimes, observe some anecdotal evidence of species adaptation by watching the lowly dandelion. Where that tall, stiff stalk had once proven advantageous for rising above wild grasses, in the nutrient-rich environs of otherwise hostile lawns it would prove a fatal vulnerability. As thousands of their brethren perished, the survivors left to propagate would be those who somehow resisted the blade—or avoided it altogether. He predicted that new generations of dandelions would favor the characteristics of flexible and/or shorter stems, the latter being the preferred strategy of the keep-your-head-down crowd.
I don’t know what turf experts have documented over the decades, but my own informal observations of very limited samples do give the impression that both strategies have proved successful. I see lawns studded with maize flowers hunkering at sod level, and the few blooms who stick their necks out let the mower simply knock them down until danger passes and the sun coaxes them back to the upright position.
We study how domestication has turned early versions of nutritional plants into what we know today as the corns and tomatoes and beans and other comestibles found in supermarket bins, and we adapt our herbicidal and other eradication strategies to target only those nuisances we hope to avoid. Sure, we understand the whole process in this ongoing weed/man territorial joust, but dandelion prevention still requires constant dogged vigilance, and even then there’ll thrive a patch of those Machiavellian little yellow-clad invaders watching and waiting nearby, biding their time.
You have to give them credit, and maybe even think about the secrets to their success.
In situations such as the workplace, sticking one’s neck out can prove effective, a way to attract positive attention, but it can also make us a target. Smart buds among us consider long-term goals, weigh the risks and benefits, and decide when it might prove wiser to keep it on the down-low while biding time for that chance to shoot a move.
I guess the best school teachers make similar choices every day, too. I recall that mine was told to cool it on the species-adaptation talk, to keep his head down for a while. The times are changing, and with so many religious leaders now acknowledging that faith doesn’t necessarily conflict with what science can teach us, those skirmishes about what real teachers dare teach thankfully grow ever more isolated. I suspect we’ll always live in a world where the loudest opinions tend to come from those who never make any serious effort to observe, to learn, and to understand.
Or from those who never met the right teacher.
Mine accomplished his goal, and now many of us, his legion of students, see things we might never otherwise notice.
So when I see those lawn-taunting happy-face dandelions on sunny summer days, I applaud my 7th-grade science teacher, and thank him for sticking his neck out.
© The Fresh Ink Group, LLC, 2007
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