At my age, seldom does a week go by that I accidentally don’t do sumpthin’ that is what I call “chuckle worthy.” It happened again last week. It’s funny enough to share in this column. Here’s what happened.
As I’ve been mentioning, I’ve been trying to “soil build” for my row garden and raised garden beds. To get the job done, I’ve been scrounging rotting organic material to mix with the top soil that I had hauled in. One neighbor donated square bales of half-rotted hay.
Another neighbor saw what I wuz doing and volunteered to give me quite a few bags of half-rotted bromegrass seed that had gotten wet on a hay rack. Since bromegrass seed is organic in nature, after I took a look at the seed, I took him up on his offer because it would work perfectly in my soil building effort. I figure the small seeds should decompose rapidly in the soil and give the soil much-needed organic matter.
So, I got myself the job of hauling the brome seed back to my garden site. For the first load, I took my all-terrain vehicle to haul it. I’ll mention that the plastic seed bags had been exposed to the wind and weather long enuf for all the bags to be at various stages of deterioration and decomposition.
They were all split open on the top. They all had a layer of heavy, wet, yucky, black rotted seed on the bottom. But also, all the bags had a layer of dry, fluffy, weather dried seed on the top. The sorry condition of the bags posed a dilemma. Some of them would hold together enuf to lift and put into the bed of the ATV.
But, alas, I learned that some of the bags would fall apart when hefted. As I wuz lifting one bag from the hay rack, it gave away as I wuz transferring it to the ATV. The fluffy brome seed flew everywhere and — sad to say — a healthy portion went straight down the front collar of my shirt.
Within an instant, gravity pulled the dry seed down and embedded it tightly into my T-shirt, my inner-underwear, my long-handled underwear, and clear down to my socks. I had an instantaneous, irritating itch from my Adam’s apple to my ankles.
For those not in the know about bromegrass seed, it is very much like wild oats seed or tickle grass. It’s most disgusting trait is that the seeds penetrate any fabric and stick there until pulled out. And, pulling out the seed is like a porcupine quill. It doesn’t come out backwards. It only comes out when you pull it through the fabric.
Well, that’s the predicament I found myself in and I wuz a quarter-mile from home. I won’t go into detail about how it felt to have prickles on my skin from top to toe, but if you have an imagination, you can conjure up a funny Mental Home Video of my situation.
Continuing to work wuz not an option. Getting rid of the itch wuz the only option. So, I hopped “itchingly” onto my ATV and headed home. When I got to the security of my garage, I began the process of “deseeding” my stripped-off clothes. I used my fingers for awhile. Then a pair of tweezers. I must have spent close to a half-hour at the job.
And, even after my clothes went through the wash. I’ve been finding a few remaining bromegrass prickles. Let my experience be a precautionary tale for anyone handling prickly seed. Do it carefully or experience an instantaneous irritating itch.
***
I did eventually get the brome seed mixed with the topsoil. And, with the help of my son-in-law, ol’ Harley Ryder, we got the first two of my raised beds set and filled with mixed soil. Only two more to go.
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Our grand-daughter in North Carolina relayed a funny little story about our great-grandkids. Our great-granddaughter is nearly five years old. Our great-grandson is a three-year-old. The kids were playing outdoors near their patio table. There wuz a pink fly-swatter laying on the table.
Soon, the sister ran into the kitchen and told her mother, “Mom, there was a big fly on the table, and we spanked it to death.”
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At our Old Geezer Gang Gathering this morning I wuz complaining about how increasingly I think of something to do elsewhere in our home, but when I get to that room, I can’t remember what I came there to do.
One wag in our group made this suggestion: “Buy yourself some new shoes with that Memory Foam sole. Then you’ll quit forgetting.”
I just might take his suggestion — providing I remember it.
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A overbearing farmer got so overbearing than everyone he knew avoided him. He eventually got frustrated enuf that he went to a psychiatrist for help.
When the doctor asked the farmer to describe his problem, he replied, “Well, Doc. Nobody will talk to me anymore. My neighbors won’t talk to me. My hired men won’t talk to me. My aging parents won’t talk to me. My kids and grandkids won’t talk to me. Even my wife won’t talk to me. Even my dog ignores me. So, why it it that no one will talk to me.
The psychiatrist looked up from his notebook, looked at his assistant and said, “Next patient, please!”
***
Words of wisdom for the week: “Even with the price of everything going up, writing paper remains stationery.”
And, “Old gardeners never die. They just spade away, then throw in the trowel.”
Have a good ‘un.
