“Dave, I gotta go. Mom’s whistling.” She had a piercing whistle that penetrated every nook and cranny in my neighborhood, and I knew it couldn’t be ignored. He waved, and I ran up the hill.
But, I didn’t go home alone. September meant the beginning of fall, along with harvest time, and the wild plants that grew in the undeveloped areas near the creek that ran through my home turf obeyed the same natural laws.
When I walked in the door, Mom ran an appraising eye up and down my pants legs. “After dinner, clean your clothes.”
Although she didn’t say it, I knew she meant the little seeds we called “stick-tights” that covered my pants.
The absolute worst of these was tiny and seemed designed to catch in the ribbing of a sock. Shaped like a seashell, it burrowed into the fabric and elastic, determined to hang on until spring.
“But, there are too many. Can you help?”
“You got them. You clean them up.”
After dinner, I sat in my room with a trash can and tedium for company while I plucked off those stubborn seeds. With all of the stick-tights gone except the ones in my socks, I had an inspiration. I’ll bet they’ll wash out. I snuck my socks into the next load and went upstairs to catch a little TV.
After school the next day, I pulled my socks out of the dryer and examined them. The socks were clean, but none of those blasted, little seeds had washed out. Not one. Rats!
I’d just finished removing the last one when my sister called down the stairs. “Bill, Dave’s here.”
I greeted him on the porch. “What do you wanna do?”
“Let’s go down to the creek.”
And all those wretched stick-tights.
“Beat you there.”
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.