of a Southern Yankee BY DAMIAN DESMOND
Until
the age of about 7, I had never really known the meaning of “work.” I lived with my grandparents in upstate New York for the first six years of my life. There, I remember my grandfather mowing his yard and tending to a small garden in the summer. I can also recall him (as I stood looking out the picture window of the cozy living room) shoveling FEET of snow in the frigid upstate winters. In 1979, I moved to Virginia for a period of about eight months to live with my parents in a small apartment. I didn’t have any chores there; instead I dealt with navigating a life with two people who were unfit to be parents. After being adopted in March of 1980, my life was transformed in a myriad of ways. One of those ways was me learning the value of work. A year or two before I came into their picture, my adopted parents had purchased almost 50 acres of land in the western part of Augusta County, Virginia, in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley. The land had been badly neglected, but had incredible potential (I think my parents had a gift for seeing the potential in the neglected). The property consisted of rolling hills, two ponds, wooded areas with majestic oaks, and was literally a young boy’s dream playground. But before it could become the gem that it is today, there was a lot of work to be done. Shortly after my adoption, my new father, who worked in Washington, DC as an ironworker, would come home on weekends. Most Saturdays, he and
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I would make the 20- to 25-minute drive to the property. Windows down, sun shining, I can still hear him singing “Going up the Country” by Canned Heat. I also remember him letting me sit on his lap to steer for the last mile or so (these were very backcountry roads, so there was no danger). The property, as I mentioned earlier, needed a great deal of TLC. There were huge areas of prickly wild rose bushes, thorny blackberry bushes and brambles, and thousands of a plant that would become my ultimate nemesis—the thistle. Now, according to my (new) old man, this was not something you wanted to see in your fields. It was a sign of neglect, and laziness, a lack of pride, and...I think you get the picture. In other words, thistles were bad and they must be eradicated! So, how do we do that? My father reached into the back of the International Scout and pulled out a rather rudimentary tool called a hoe. I was about to learn how to destroy thistles. My excitement was short-lived when I found out how it was done. Every thistle had to be completely dug up, root and all and left to die in the sun. Now, if you’ve never had personal experience with thistles, there are a couple things to know. From a distance, they are quite a pretty plant (weed, actually). Each plant consists of a dark green stalk that can grow two to three feet tall. When in bloom, the flowers are fluffy and dark pink in color (those flowers turn into seeds, as with dandelions). Harmless, right? Wrong. Up close, upon further inspection, the thistle has sharp pointy leaves and is entirely covered with tiny needle-like
