With two farmsteads to care for, I have developed a thing about weeds. Specifically, killing them. Liquidating those lambsquarters. Slaying those sunflowers. Murdering those cockleburs.

There are various methods available for giving weeds a one-way ticket to the hereafter. A guy can mow them or spray them or till them until their root systems are reduced to underground confetti. I would like to use a flamethrower but alas, my wife won’t let me buy one.

Of all the vexatious vegetation that irks me, none is more galling than those troublesome thistles.

I am an equal opportunity thistle hater. I detest all types of thistles, including the bull, the musk, and those that snuck across the border from Canada.

That’s not quite true. I personally hope that there’s a special place in Hades for Canada thistles. This is because Canada thistles have conducted numerous assaults on my person.

When I was growing up on our small family dairy farm, all of our hay and straw was stored in the form of square bales. Between the baling, the storing, and the feeding processes, each bale was manhandled (or, more accurately, kid-handled) several times.

Throwing bales may have built muscles and character, but it also instilled in me a deep loathing of Canada thistles. Handling a pile of thistle-riddled bales meant enduring so many punctures that the skin of your legs began to resemble a screen door. Some of the thistle thorns embedded themselves in your flesh, necessitating an uncomfortable session with a pair of tweezers and a stinging splash of iodine.

Back then, before the advent of modern herbicides, it was not uncommon to see Canada thistle patches in our fields. The noxious nogoodniks could totally choke out the crops in the areas they infested. The thistle’s purple flowers were their way of rubbing it in, as if they were saying, “Neener, neener, you can’t touch me! Literally, because I’m covered with thorns.”

We had an ancient pull-type grain combine that had a woefully underpowered engine. The term “spoon feeding” came to mind when a guy was combining an especially thick windrow of oats.

If you drove just a fraction of an inch too fast, the engine would say, “OK, that’s it for me!” and give up the ghost. You had to clear the combine’s internal workings before you could restart the engine and reengage the threshing mechanism.

The engine always threw in the towel right after the combine had ingested a slug of Canada thistles. Even though the weeds were thoroughly dry, their spines remained needle sharp. Thick leather gloves were worn while clearing out the combine, but I would always suffer numerous thistle-related jabs in the forearms. It’s a good thing we didn’t own a flamethrower or else we wouldn’t have had a combine.

Our handful of Jersey steers have an acre or so of grassy cattle yard to nosh upon. Some years ago, a patch of Canada thistles appeared in the cattle yard. The patch was too large to weed whack and it didn’t make sense to till it, so I consulted Mel Kloster, my erstwhile county agent guy. He recommended that I mow the thistles early and often.

“If you starve out their rootstock they will eventually die off,” Mel explained.

I took his advice. I hooked my trusty John Deere “A” tractor onto my No. 5 sickle mower and clipped the thistle patch whenever it looked like the weeds might be mounting a comeback.

I’m pleased to report that the thistle patch is now completely gone. Our steers are happy to have thorn-free grazing and I was overjoyed to notch a small victory over my old archnemesis.

Much of my weed control is accomplished with a 2-gallon sprayer that I lug around. Yes, it means work, but it also means that I’m getting my steps in.

There are certainly other methods that could be used to apply herbicides around the farmsteads. For instance, I wanted to purchase a crop-dusting airplane, but that was yet another idea that my wife shot down.

In retrospect, it was a good call. It would be really difficult to hit all those little nooks and crannies by the buildings while zooming along at 130 mph. And then there would be the whole issue of obtaining a pilot’s license and an applicator’s permit and explaining to the FAA why my plane had circled Bikini Beach for such a long time.

It’s easier and quicker to simply fill my sprayer and go for a stroll. Plus, there is a lot of satisfaction to be had from killing weeds up close and in person.

Take that, you pesky pigweed!

— Jerry’s book, Dear County Agent Guy, is available at http://Workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.