Dandelions

I recently noticed some dandelions growing on the grass. Not only does it mean that Spring is in full bloom, but it reminds me of something. When I was younger, one of the only ways for myself and my siblings to earn money (except for allowances) was to rid our lawn of dandelions. I remember the rate: for every two dandelions that we picked we would get one penny. Now I don't remember if the rate changed when we moved from Canada to the United States, but I'll always remember that rate.

We had to be quick about it too, if we waited too long the dandelions would turn white, and the seeds would swoop across the yard. This of course meant that there would be more dandelion plants next year, which sometimes sounded like not too bad an idea if we wanted to earn more money.

One summer, I remember getting twenty dollars for picking dandelions. Doing the math now, I see that I picked around 4000 plants. Would I show that much dedication for a job now, if I knew that I would only get twenty dollars? (Which is well beneath minimum wage).

It's odd to think about it now, though. Because most of the work was in vain. The dandelions would come right back the next summer if we didn't yank the taproot, and the lawnmower did a much better job than me, Emily, or Stephen. Yet my parents let us do the job anyway, a chance to do good, honest, yet most certainly monotonous labor.

Therefor, dandelions will always hold a special memory for me. How can I forget all those summers of getting my hands stained from the milky substance inside, for slaves wages? I hate to see yet another portion of the younger bit of my childhood going away.