It was 1962, Wichita, Kansas.  My Dad surveyed the front yard—a very big front yard, a grim look on his face.   "Weeds," he pronounced sullenly, as if our front yard had become the equivalent of a D-Day for an invasive species.   Only nine years old, I did not appreciate the profundity of my father's observation.   "I like the pretty yellow flowers," I quietly voiced. "They are weeds," my father scolded, ignoring my obvious naivete, "dandelions, to be more precise." "What?" "Dandelions. They are pernicious things," he added, using a word I did not yet know but assumed to mean somethin