Featured photo: Grass burrs, the bane for young barefoot boys. (Courtesy photo)
It’s interesting that as time passes, you remember certain things that stand out from your growing up years.
One of the things that has popped into my mind recently isgrass burrs. It’s been years since these dastardly rascals entered my mind. Have they all been eradicated? I can’t remember the last time I saw one and that last one was probably imbedded on the bottom of my bare foot.
These little burrs grew on long green stems and were no doubt created by the Devil himself. Sharp little spikes grew out from all over each of the burrs and for barefoot boys, they not only slowed you down from playing but hurt like the dickens when you got into a patch of them.
Here’s how Google describes them…..”grass burrs are spiky, barbed seed pods that stick to skin, clothing and pet fur, causing pain and spreading seeds.” Enough said. I wonder if they have somehow been nearly eradicated because I no longer see them. Maybe if I walked around barefooted I might find they’re still around.
My mama always had chickens that provided fresh eggs and Sunday dinners. They spent their time out in the yard pecking and clucking and at night, would all head for the “chicken house” where they roosted.
The fact that they spent all their time over the same ground that barefoot boys played meant there were obstacles we had to look out for. Chickens eat; they don’t have bathrooms but when the urge hits they leave their droppings scattered around the yard.
We had a name for these little “gifts” chickens left wherever the urge hit them. We called these little droppings, “chicken dabs”. Barefoot boys were often too busy trying to avoid grass burrs that we would feel something squishy between your toes. You had inadvertently stepped in a chicken dab.
Here’s where bitter weeds came into play. These plants with the pretty yellow flowers had the ability to render fresh milk we collected daily from our milk cow unfit to drink. It was necessary to be sure the cow was in a pasture where bitter weeds didn’t grow. Many times mama had to pour out all of a day’s milking because old Bossy had ventured into a patch of bitter weeds.
These weeds had at least one redeeming quality, however. When you stepped in a chicken dab, all you had to do was find a bitter weed, slide it between the toes where the chicken had left her offering, move your foot from the stem to the flower and leave the dab for the bitter weed to worry about.
Interesting, isn’t it, how as you get older, such things as grass burrs, chicken dabs and bitter weeds creep back into your mind. I’m just glad they are only memories; I’m relieved that today I only have to worry about what hurts, when is my next doctor’s appointment and what we’re having for supper.