The Gauntlet Is Thrown

And so it goes, another lovely weekend in early summer.

Except that I have declared war.

Our yard, or grounds, or land or Lil' Patch O' Heaven (sorry, had to throw that one in, just evil), is about 8 acres of Wisconsin pasture. The area around the house, presumably where everything was bulldozed bare 8 years ago for the building of the house, was planted with lawn-grass. The rest of the grassland that is the back and side former pastureland is a mixture of various prairie grasses. At least I call it prairie grass, as it is a mix of vigorous grasses that, if left to its own devices, grows to about 3 feet high. One actually has tiny yellow flowers coming out of the grass seeds. Clover abounds, as do dandelions, turning the whole damn area first a lovely solid yellow, then a frightening white, as you realize that over a billion dandelion seeds are being released to fly free to your carefully tilled and de-weeded patch of garden. But this is mere annoyance. A brief irritation, not to be mentioned, save to the internet. It's the Others that have invaded, obtaining more than a toehold in my beloved future arboretum.

The damn thistles.

Last year, in some sort of hallucinatory haze, I remember thinking, "Gosh, there are a lot of thistles. And look how tall and prickly they are. And so vigorous. And scary. Good thing there are not so horribly many of them. Only a few thousand. A mere piddling number. I will let them be and admire the ugly purple flowers and let them breed. Yes. Breeding. Good."

There is no other explanation. I was brainwashed.

But like the person who has had the glamour revealed, I will be putty in their hands no more. I will eradicate every sandal-spearing one of them.

Sadly, we live in a place where our water comes from our own well. Dug on our own land. A water source that will be defiled, adding extra heads and taking quality-of-life years from our offspring, should we use chemical or nuclear (ahem) solutions. That leaves the old fashioned way of human-(me)-with-a-shovel. Actually I have 2 shovels stashed within easy grabbing, under the deck, just in case one mysteriously disappears and ends up under a car tire or in the fire pit. I hear the thistles have connections with organized crime, as brokered by the innocent looking wild roses. Sure, they look pretty but have you ever tried to cross one?

My plan of attack is simple: First, prevent every single one from going to seed. Fortunately, as they can't seed until they are 3-5 feet tall, depending on the branch of the thistle family, I have some warning and they can't do it overnight, unlike the blighted dandelions. Second, me and my trusty spades will dig up each and every one of the one billion of them. I figure at a rate of 50 a day, I will toss the last one with a hearty cry of "Bye-bye thistle! Ahar!" (Sara joins me in this yell, and I feel that the pirate ending to the cheer is heartening in the face of such odds) at the age of 97.

So there you have it. The peaceful country.

An old and dear friend back in the Portland days once described a dream where the morning glory they were trying to eradicate were growing in through the attic and throttling them in their sleep. I look on this as simple home defense. This year, our yard. Heaven forbid, next year the house?

No. I am armed with shovel and know how to use it. I am also looking into the benefits of obtaining a blowtorch. If pressed, it should keep them at bay long enough to reach the garage where the weed wacker and mower are. Provided they haven't been disabled first. The wild roses may have been forming an alliance with the spiders. You never know.

Time to go.

I need to draft a treaty with the barn swallows. If I promise 2 lawn mowings a week, with full access to all banquet of creepy-crawlies such mowings reveal, I figure we have a natural ally. (Seriously, as soon as Charles fires up the mower, they swoop from the barn and follow him like he was the Messiah.)

Wish me well, and if you don't hear from me for over a week, send funeral flowers. Just know I went down fighting. Bury the spades at my sides and leather gardening gloves on my hands.