Make a Wish Little Dandelion

A little about my grandmother, my only consistent positive influence as a child.

(Dandelion (1777-1798) vintage prints by William Curtis. Original public domain image from The Minneapolis Institute )

I fell in love with dandelions as a small child. No one, absolutely no one, in my family cared about getting rid of weeds. On either side. And thank goodness for that. We had dandelions every year and sometimes they would climb up our steps and settle in the cracks, a little closer, a little closer each year until I wondered if they were trying to find me and tell me how much they loved me too. We had stone steps and they were the most magical steps. Dandelions definitely taught me I could grow and do everything I needed to do in life, no matter where my feet were planted.

(My best friend and I in the 7th grade. My grandma took these pictures while she teased us about how cool we were with our serious faces. Notice the grass creeping on up the stairs. Man I miss those pants. And those good times with my best friend. I am on the left.)

I was raised by my paternal grandmother after I turned 5. We lived on the edge of town on about an acre, with only one neighbor, on our left. I would play in my front yard off the highway that ran through my small town. Cars would drive by, one every 3 to 5 seconds during the busy times. I always felt like I was behind a window or a glass dome that anyone could see through when I played in our front yard. I would spin in circles, lay on the lawn and watch the clouds (making friends with those weird little squiggles on my eyes) and of course, find dandelions to make wishes with.