This weekend I had the opportunity to get a glimpse, although a very vague one, into the life of a southern cotton picker. It reminded me of that Sally Field movie, I forget the name of it.
My dad can do some pretty strange things so I was a little hesitant when he stopped his pickup in front of the garage and told me to go and get the yellow bucket. I hopped out of the truck and went to retrieve said bucket and when I came back I asked him what it was for. I think I said, “are we making ice cream?” because that’s what the bucket looked like. He then replied, “no, but I bet you’ll scream and not for ice cream”
No good can come from this.
He stops at the pasture gate and looked at me. This translates into “open the damn gate.” So I did and then he started to drive, that’s when I noticed terror on the plains. The thistle or everyone’s favorite noxious weed had taken up residence in our pasture. It’s sharp, it seeds like mad and it can take on the appearance of a small tree when left alone. I was looking at a forest of them.
"Um, we aren't going to cut all of those are we?" I knew the answer, but I couldn't help but ask. Great, I guess I wouldn't be getting breakfast at grandma's because by the time we got done with this 'chore' I'd be lucky to get supper.
“Get a glove,” that statement is never fun. So I picked up the gloves and my bucket and watched as my dad pulled the spade from the back of the truck. I wanted to cry. It was wet, the pasture grass was tall and I was all about being a big wiener. I’m not going to lie.
“Pick em off like that and don’t drop the bastards cause they’ll seed,” he told me. No pressure.
So there I was plucking purple flowers off of sticker trees in the middle of the pasture. It didn't help that he was trying to chop them down before I got the bloom plucked off. I tried to work quickly and not drop any, but it was so hard to do.
I filled up two buckets and literally wanted to throw myself into the next gully I found and sprain an ankle. Then I remembered that my dad doesn’t believe in the ER and he probably would have just told me to ‘walk it off’ which would mean more sticker plucking and that would make me…
You see where I’m going with this one.
I should really write a book about my adventures growing up.
We did get them all cut down, and I even made it in for lunch.
-MO-
sarah
2 comments:
Oh I remember those days!! We didn't have to do much w/ thistles, but my dad was nuts about cedar trees. The cows ate the tops off of all of our thistles, but maybe that's b/c dad starved the cows?? It's all a vague memory now. You know... the same way certain victims "repress" awful memories of tragic events.
But you had it worse, b/c the few times I had to cut thistles, I was so pissed and sore by the end. I totally feel for you. That's part of the reason I move over 1500 miles away! LOL j/k.
-gay it up!
classic
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