Shooting Weed
Shooting Weed
Out here beyond the last utility pole, internet service seems dependent on weather stability and wind direction. When we hear the wind chimes on the porch tuning up, we are pretty well assured that nothing will go through. So, what happens when the wind picks up mid-message? Anything. l had about a week's worth of occasional typing invested in the third and final installment of Of Grease and Chaff--The Three Seasons of a Country Mechanic. While trying to send it in, the wind picked up and it suddenly disappeared. I have the original typed paper copy circa 1995. l can't simply scan it in (l would have to find a scanner somewhere) because there are several updates of parts that wouldn't make much sense in 2025. Where did my attempted submission go? lt's ''Gone With The Wind.'' l wish l could go all Rhet Butler and say l don't give a damn but it's more painful than that. l'll get over it as l re-type installment number three--there's little choice.
Shooting Weed was written in the relatively carefree days when l made all of my submissions to publishers on paper with color print photos sent Priority Mail/Insured. Well, that's ''progress.'' Shooting Weed first appeared in Farm and Ranch Living Magazine probably in the 1990's. l'll try to get that third installment out soon. Thanks.
Shooting Weed
The Dennis the Menace television program made its debut in 1961. Like every eight year old boy, l wanted a slingshot like the one l saw Dennis the Menace packing. Of course, finding the necessary forked stick was no obstacle on the family farm in rural New Jersey. As this was 1961, inner tubes were still widely used in automobile tires so a strip of rubber from a discarded tube was an easy find as well. l was soon in business!
l became pretty handy with this weapon, so much so that while shooting pebbles at the weathered boards of the farm's repair shop, l was quite surprised when one of these missles went wide of its intended target and shattered a window pane. l went into the shop to inspect for further damage. To my horror, l found glass fragments scattered into the intricate workings of the farm's 1949 Studebaker truck's carburetor which had been disassembled, cleaned and carefully laid out on the workbench.
A boy's natural inclination at times like these was to make oneself scarce. The major drawback to this strategy is that he invariably experienced more worry than he would have if he just faced the music. The phrase ''it takes a village to raise a child'' had a very literal meaning in those days. Any relative or even a trusted farmhand could administer punishment to a boy escaping the scene of a crime as serious as this. Punishment was, of course, carried out in a manner more traditional than politically correct.
By that time, my dad and uncles had built homes in some of the farm's outer pastures and were raising families. My grandparents and my aunt Helen, barely out of her teens, lived in the 18th century farmhouse. The farm had become primarily a supplier of meat, produce and dairy products for the extended family. My dad and his brothers worked at jobs in town in addition to farming part time. They were too busy to chase a young criminal like me over hundreds of acres of woods and farmland. This land was so gentle that parents seldom worried about children wandering about freely--or maybe my case was unique.
Hunting down a fugitive like me (supposedly to bring him to justice) was considered woman's work. Aunt Helen and her short-haired terrier, Jeffy, were dispatched. lt didn't take them very long to find me but rather than making an arrest, Aunt Helen sensed my remorse and sat down with me to wait for things to blow over.
As the three of us sat among the weeds and wildflowers at the edge of a hayfield, something soft but scratchy struck my right ear. l turned quickly and saw Helen bending the stalk of a weed into a loop. She pointed the weed at me and pulled the loop with an index finger. The seedhead of the weed popped free and flew past my head. Possessing a boy's natural fascination with with things that launch projectiles (which got me into this mess in the first place) l wanted in on this deal!
She showed me how to loop the stalk around the seedhead of the ''shooting weed.'' (Actually Buckhorn Plantain or Plantago lanceolata) Jeffy, lacking opposable thumbs watched and became a target. He was a patient dog, used to the hijinks of my many cousins and myself, but we knew that he would growl and eventually snap when he had had enough. Discovering ''shooting weed'' helped me to forget that l was a fugitive from justice and helped me to enjoy life anew. l still had to face the music but by then the tune had mellowed. That evening, l heared my parents deciding my fate; ''Helen talked to him...'' my mother testified.
''Well, okay, but he'll still have to pay for that glass.'' said my dad, resolving the matter. l could almost hear a gavel fall. l was greatly relieved--any punishment that didn't involve heat to the backside was as good as an acquittal. There would be no hickory switch cut in my honor after all.
And that's how ''shooting weed'' cheered up a sad little boy over sixty years ago.
Last summer, my wife talked with a young mother at the edge of a shopping mall parking lot. We're empty nesters now having raised three bright and motivated children into adulthood with no felony indictments. The young family was experiencing some of the many pressures that young families face these days. lt was apparently taking its toll on the children as well as the parents. l sat on a curb--beyond the curb was an apple orchard . The kids were sitting on the curb, too. They were quiet and well behaved which didn't seem at all normal for six and seven year olds. l felt awkward, not knowing what to say to them or their parents--so many of these problems simply didn't exist when my wife and l were parenting.
l looked toward the orchard. Well, whattaya know...plantago lanceolata. l gathered a few stalks and gave a quick demonstration. More stalks were gathered and a fierce battle ensued-- l hadn't lost my touch. My wife looked over at me and the laughing, shreiking children. "l just can't take him anywhere.'' she said, smiling.
Shooting weed. lt still works. lf it weren't already so prolific, l would sell seeds.
Oh, the good old days!! Great story. As a youngster, I threw a corn cob at a sparrow inside a hog house, and wouldn't you know it, I knocked out a window. I had the same feelings you did, YIKES. Never got the sparrow either. That would have been in the late 50's.