(Grit)

Canada thistle has grit – not quite the diversified variety of grit that its distant cousin the dandelion has, but still deserving of many a weed appreciation member from afar. Not that there even exists such creatures as weed admirerers. Only in that reverse despising way, such as people ogling that old beater wreck of a car, for its mere existence outside the dump, or the fact it contained Chrysler, Ford, Chev, and Studebaker parts.
Resilient stuff, Canada thistle. “Dig deeper. It’s suckering main root is deeper, I tell you. If you don’t get every inch it’ll sprout.” Father’s words fell on lazy ears. Arms only pretended to dig.
“Yeah we know already. It was here last year.”
“Make sure you get it all this year, then. Be diligent. I’m sick of it interfering with the oats.”
Then we’d sing joyously while shovels rested, “And the stuff came back, the very next year; it just didn’t have any fear.”
Resting shovels had a higher purpose: the tough game of Man versus Thistle. It was our version of a bed of coals in Fiji fire-walking penance rites, and the game was simple: “How far can you run through a thistle patch?”
As the summer grew, so did the distance we managed. Still, we saved the serious match for the end of August when those city softy cousins came out for their annual retreat from pavement. We prayed for rain and mud to aid in the frivolity, egoism, and foolish madness.
It was never a matter of who would go first. We did, calling out, “Betcha can’t do this, Chickens!” and then dash like dancing divas through the thorny plot.
But the Chicken clan would tumble amidst tears, whines, and glorious globs of black greasy mud, while we made sure to never display those secret calloused soles from a barefoot summer on crushed gravel roads.