It's not difficult to imagine a line. First, close your eyes. Remember when you were a child and noticed everything about the world: the light stretching just so across the baseball field, the white ... [+]
Dave Bachmann is a retired teacher who taught language arts to special needs students in Arizona for 39 years. He now resides in California, writing poems and short stories for children and grown-ups. "Dandy Lions" is in Short Circuit #14, Short Édition's quarterly review.
It was 1962, Wichita, Kansas. My Dad surveyed the front yard—a very big front yard, a grim look on his face.
"Weeds," he pronounced sullenly, as if our front yard had become the equivalent of a D-Day for an invasive species.
Only nine years old, I did not appreciate the profundity of my father's observation.
"I like the pretty yellow flowers," I quietly voiced.
"They are weeds," my father scolded, ignoring my obvious naivete, "dandelions, to be more precise."
"What?"
"Dandelions. They are pernicious things," he added, using a word I did not yet know but assumed to mean something exceedingly bad.
"Well, they're still pretty."
"Tell you what," my father spoke suddenly, ignoring my comments, "I'll give you a nickel for each one you pick."
A nickel. A whole nickel. For each one. I would be rich.
Under the firm tutelage of my father (who had obviously not heard of weed spray or, more likely, was too frugal to purchase it) I soon discovered that one did not "pick" a dandelion. They were unceremoniously dug up from the roots, with a metal utensil resembling a pointed soup spoon.
It was grueling work. And after an hour of toil, I had but 22 dandelions for my effort. Far from the bountiful harvest I had imagined.
It was then that I got a grand idea.
Like most nine-year-olds in the summer of 1962, I was an experienced lemonade stand operator. I would set up a card table, pitcher of Kool-Aid, and a sign advertising my wares for 5 cents a cup. Business would typically be brisk for 30 minutes or so, during which time my peers would frequent my establishment and then, predictably, drop off. After compensating my mother for her expenses, I would be lucky to walk away with a quarter in profits.
But today, I had something else in mind.
There would be no overhead to this venture. A quick alteration to my sign, and I was ready to be open for business.
Dandy Lions – 5 ¢
I tore off the flowers, careful to leave enough of the weed behind to earn my father's approval (and his nickels), then carefully placed three of the delicate yellow treasures in a cup. Seven cups in all.
And I waited.
Strangely enough, it was the gardener from across the street that became my first customer. He took one look at my sign, the flowers, and shook his head in disbelief.
"Don't that beat all!" he exclaimed, "a dandelion stand. Got to have one of those bouquets to give my wife. She'll never believe it."
Miss Fletcher, my piano teacher, was my second customer. She drove by, backed up, parked, and approached with a look I had only seen once—when I had correctly executed Beethoven's Ode to Joy.
"What a beautiful floral arrangement!" she exclaimed, closely examining one of the cups. "I'll take two. They'll look just fine on my piano."
I was exalting in the success of my business venture when my father appeared.
He stood quietly, assessing what was before him, a look of incredulity on his face. And then, he did something that I will never forget. He smiled.
"Well, well, son, didn't know we had an entrepreneur in the family."
I said nothing, basking in the joy of being heralded an entrepreneur by my father, even though I hadn't a clue what it meant.
My father critically scrutinized the table, my sign, and the flowers, before nodding approvingly. "I'll take one," he casually remarked, producing a nickel from his pocket.
As he made his way back to the house, a cup of dandelions in hand, he thought of something and stopped.
"By the way, how many weeds did you pull?"
"Twenty-two," I announced. "Do you want to see them?"
"No, son," he answered, smiling. "I trust you." And then added, "Don't close up shop quite yet. I have a feeling your mother will want to see this."
It was a moment of sheer bliss for me. I had won the approval of my father, something that would stay with me for a long time.