Spring had come once again to the little mainland town where my life's journey had taken me. It had been three or four years since I graduated from Nurse School as my children would call it when they were younger. Since then, life had been full. Since graduation my days were filled with wedding plans, marriage, moving away with my husband as his work took him to many different places and setting up housekeeping, making a home for ourselves took much time and we enjoyed it to the fullest. Working, budgeting expenses, making new friends, keeping in touch at all costs with those loved ones and friends left in Newfoundland made for a full life indeed. People were friendly and we never lacked for companionship or new places to go, as a couple and then as a family.

Of course as two Newfoundlanders we took our fair share of ribbing, and we took it with the Newfoundlanders ability to laugh at ourselves. One of the things that I would express that caused a great deal of teasing, and was a source of great amusement to others in our neighborhood or at work was my genuine amazement in the spring time as my neighbors spotted the first little dandelion sprout its little spot of yellow. Out would come the onslaught of weed killers, weed pickers, and lawn mowers. It was almost like a war zone at times. Then the moaning and the groaning would start about this terrible dandelion weed, and how would they be able to have good lawns if something wasn't done about this situation of the awfully destructive dandelion? It was so frustrating for some people that I am sure they spent countless hours planning ways to conquer this seemingly life-altering weed. In the middle of a group of friends one day, when the moaning was at its peak, I happened to comment that I didn't know what all the fuss was about really because, and I used an exaggerated Newfoundland accent, I said back “ome we calls um flowers". Well, the reaction of all present would never be the same in the telling! But I can assure you I was the brunt of much teasing for long after that comment. Needless to say I had to get on with a rant and expound on my observation I had made and tell the story of why I called them flowers.

To this day I am sure it did not make too much sense to those who had to listen but I felt compelled to explain why I could not have the hatred of the dandelion that they seemed to agonize over so much. I explained it this way.

I was born on the barren, but beautiful, Labrador Coast. As an infant I was brought to Twillingate, then later my family moved to Burgeo, and then Port Saunders. My fathers work required so many transfers but those three places in particular shaped my life the most, and was where I fell in love with the lowly dandelion. That long ago, isolated and rocky, fishing in its heyday, a lawn was the last thing the rural Newfoundland people worried about. But as children we knew the secrets of the little yellow flower. After a long winter, with snow and ice, wind and freezing rain, the springtime sun would melt the snowy ground cover slowly but surely, and we would wait patiently for the first patches of grass and lichen to appear, and it always did. Then more grass, longer, warmer days, and then sure as shootin' there it would be-the one lone little yellow flower that would start all sorts of activities again.

Summer was coming, every day more yellow flowers, more action on the town wharf and the stage heads, then after awhile the whole community would be abuzz with everyone outside, clothes on the lines, dogs barking, bicycles everywhere, and gradually we would have thousands of yellow dandelions waving their heads in the wind. Then would come the buttercups. We had it made then, school would soon be out, picnics would start, boats launched, boil ups of mussels on the beach would be a daily event, and it all would start with the pop-up of the one little yellow flower.

Every child would pick various bouquets for their mothers or grandmothers, and I wonder how many mothers hearts were warmed by the sight of the little children with their big smiles, running toward them in their Koolaid or Freshie stained shirts, scraped knees, and chubby little hands reaching up with the precious handpicked gift of carefully chosen treasures? How many mothers put the tiny buttercup blooms under little chins and asked "Do you like butter? Oh, yes you do, I see the yellow on your chin!" And of course everyone had the reflection on their chin so the children would run off to try the trick on their fathers or grandfathers, because they were the most challenging for the buttercup trick, especially if they had a beard.

The dandelion blooms would get bigger and bigger, the bumblebees would start their work, then it was time to have a little jar with a hole poked in the lid to maintain an oxygen supply we believed, and we would spend hours trying to capture a bumblebee, only to release it in an hour or so. Just curious as to what they looked like. This activity was a rite of passage and probably continues to this day. All of a sudden one day the dandelion blooms would start turning into big fluffy seed filled balls. This caused another activity, chasing each other and blowing the fluff into each others hair.

Such carefree days, such innocent fun, such clean enjoyment, and all because of the dandelion. It brought me so much pleasure that I cannot develop any animosity toward the little weed that we always called flowers.

I don't know if the point ever reached my audience really. The teasing continued, and it was always a laugh, and of course the word was passed around that Bonnie actually liked those awful weeds. And my mainland life continued on.

Then the neighborhood started to grow. More houses were built, new people moved in, families grew, swing sets gave way to having the occasional pool installed, and the children enjoyed their bicycles, but only in driveways never on the precious lawns, which by now were luscious and weed free. Then of course came the time that something had to be done to protect all those lovely lawns so the weed man was hired by everyone, and it had to be everyone because it one person did not treat their lawn, they would grow weeds, which in turn would go to seed and attack the other lawns. So, I too, had the weed man.

There were two years of weed spraying before the neighborhood was given notice to keep pets and children off all sprayed areas of grass for twenty-four hours after the application of the spray. In the 85*-90* still summer afternoons the truck would arrive and the men would jump out and apply face masks, and spray some awful smelling chemical on every blade of grass to be seen. People got sick, developed rashes and headaches, nausea and vomiting. Everyone would suffer in some way. Pets who were unfortunate enough to get outside would be very sick, some more than others. I know of one little much loved cat that convulsed, was rushed to the animal hospital, but died, leaving a young girl in tears for a week. On one occasion I, thinking after two days it would be safe, put my lovely big Peruvian Guinea Pig out on the grass for a sense of freedom from his cage. When I went to check him , he had died, his freshly shampooed fur blowing softly in the light summer breeze. I was heartbroken, and I knew the grass he had eaten had poisoned him. I quit getting the weed man that day. I felt the guilt of being so vain, being so foolhardy to bend to the pressure, of exposing my family and pets to the noxious spray.

Gradually, one by one, the neighbors began to realize too that something was not right. They got together and requested the new environmentally friendly weed killer. And the lawns were all beautiful, no weeds, and only the occasional pet to be seen. Slowly the kids started off to college and couples started to say, no more spraying, its too darned expensive.

And so it went. I still remember that chemical smell, the headaches, and I clearly remember my lost pet. After deciding to retire and return to Newfoundland, the land of the dandelion bouquets and strong family ties, we found ourselves living on the land where my husband grew up.

I mow the large lawn on the homestead property here, and a few days ago I saw the first little yellow flower, the dandelion. There will be no spraying here, not in this little nook in Trinity Bay. My cat can fun freely, the dandelions can grow and so can the buttercups because we are home now and “back here we still calls um flowers!"

Bonnie Jarvis-Lowe
lowe@superweb.ca

"They conquer who believe they can." John Dryden

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