One Man's Weed Is Another Man's Science

When I was a teenager, my father would sooner believe that I was an incompetent lawn mower than even entertain the possibility that I was motivated to preserve what he considered weeds, those suburban symbols of lassitude and irresponsibility. If I'd see a patch of flowering clover or the tiny star-like flowers of stitchwort (Stellaria), I felt compelled to mow around them, come back to the patches with lawn clippers to cut protruding blades of grass and try to make the weeds as inconspicuous as possible, hoping to sneak my conservation effort past my father's critical eye.  But it never worked. read more

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