Dandelions dotted my childhood. When the long Michigan winter began to admit defeat, there were dandelions, spreading their leaves like fingers, flat and broad, across the greening grass with their tiny fists of buds in the middle. Their first spring appearance was signal for my mother to grab a plastic bucket and a long-bladed kitchen knife and head for the yard and meadow to harvest those tender plants and buds for our first batch of dandelion greens.
Writers
This carefully maintained dock holds a growing collection of the written word. Here, you’ll find thought provoking articles, unique stories, private letters, personal notes, deep musings, and occasionally, even poetry. Much of the content here has never been shared publicly. For whatever reason, some pieces were tucked away by the writer for years. Now, it’s all available for you.