Thistle

When my dad built his house, the city of Orono stuck its nose into all of his business. According to some official guy named Mike, we weren't allowed to have a pool unless we legally named a large amount of land to be designated wetland. Some of that land actually was marsh, but most of it wasn't. The naturalist tendencies of the city made sure that if those snobby rich people wanted a pool, then Orono would get a wetland.

I'm not complaining. I think it looks nice - the swaying prairie that ripples in the wind, the wildflowers that bloom in every shade and size. But when they required us to plant a certain mix of seeds, they didn't tell us what was in it. One of the requirements was that we planted thistle.

Plant thistle? What? You mean those spiny, invasive weeds that prick you if you even look at them? Yeah, those. Each year, my step-mom dukes it out with the army that crops up across the yard. And there's a lot - last year, one of the piles of pulled-up weeds was larger than a compact car (and I wish I was joking.) Every spring is a battle, and the war never ends.

Today, I was woken up at nine and tossed a pair of yellow work gloves. I dressed myself in jeans, a long sleeve shirt, a jacket, a hat, and boots even though it was almost July. I got lost in the tall grass as I bent over to arm wrestle a  weed, and the only thing reminding me that I was still in Minnesota - not the jungle - was my dad's consistent complaints against "those democrats that made us plant this junk".

My back is sore, the sun hid itself, and I need to shower badly. I am exhibiting PTSD syndromes. My stomach is growling like an animal. On the bright side, we are rewarded for our efforts. We're going to Macaroni Grill soon. I think I'll order a kid's meal.