At the risk of flying against my strong Scottish Ancestral winds, allow me to state emphatically, with great zeal, and determination and without the slightest hesitation, I HATE thistles.
It is wrong of me, of course, but I've noticed, being wrong seldom stops me from doing a thing. I HATE thistles.
I am wrong in hating thistle because in the ten years we have lived here, thistles, and thistles alone, have conquered my hard pan soil. Buckwheat that is suppose to grow on concrete, languished and died. Radishes that were suppose to "break up" the hard pan, grew their roots in the air, with only the tiniest tip in the soil. Even cat's eyes could only penetrate a fourth of an inch into the hard pan. Thistle, and only thistle drilled into the soil to eke out an existence. I would like to think that somewhere inside my chest beats a grateful heart. Alas, I have been ridiculed, mocked and scorned for the sake of these prickly, spiteful weeds. In truth, by the time these vile plants will have done their job and made my soil friable, we will have moved, our landlords will have developed the land and all my hopes will be for not. I will forever carry the burden of shame of growing a meadow of thistles in my front yard, ON PURPOSE! ( No, it wasn't on purpose; it was out of submission.) I will never be allowed to reap the benefits of my suffering. And yet, for all the humiliation and shame and loathing, I am forced against my will and desires, to admit they have done this land good.
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