Thorns and Flowers

Charlie jumped from the passenger side of his grandfather's truck. The truck was old, worn, and it showed in the sounding of the squeaking frame, outlined by deep patches of rust. It was a 1987 model Ford that had seen it's fair share of farm work, but still served the family well. In the bed of the truck was a rusty toolbox low against the rear windshield, open and bearing the tools to combat the challenges of the day; wire cutters, sledge hammer, T-Post drivers, pairs of gnarled leather gloves, and scattered wrenches laying loose across the bottom.
Charlie turned and reached in for a pair of gloves. While doing so he asked, to no one in particular, "Do you think it will be hot today?"
"Should be. Not alot of cloud cover, and it's been hot all week." Replied his brother, while sitting on his knees preparing to bast a new stump .
"I hate this." said Charlie.
"Well, maybe you should have stayed home."
The Grandfather came slowly around the truck wearing a drab colored flanel shirt, overalls riddled with tears, a straw hat, and thick glasses. He looked very much lik a farmer. He was sweating; short and broad, his hands large with knotted muscle.
He removed his hat, ran a loose bandana across his brow while saying, " Charlie, put your long-sleeve on, it's going to be hot. That water jug is in the back."
It was already first light of the morning and well over ninety degrees. A mist had already risen from the hay field in the heat of the rising sun, and Charlie was already feeling tired and weary. He reached for his flanel in the cab and put it on. He mimicked his grandfather, putting sunscreen on his face and ears. He could hear him humming out a melody that Charlie knew well because of him.
"I've got a lovely bunch of Coconuts Sitting in a row.
Small ones, fat ones, some as big as your head!"
This made Charlie grin. He finished his sunscreen and met his Grandfather at the tail-gate. his Grandfather looked at him curiously. Charley's posture, pocketed hands and puffed cheeks displayed his disinterest in the tasks at hand. His grandfather removed his hat, revealing off-white, thick hair. He wiped his forehead while saying, "Now you have to be carefull with this. Always wear gloves and keep it off your clothes."
The Grandfather pulled an old anti-freeze jug from the bed to the tailgate and opened the top. Next to the jug was another anti-freeze container, just the same, but with one broad side cut out. He cautiously picked up the full jug with his large hands and began pouring a yellow-brown, half translucent liquid into the open broad side of the lying jug. Holding his nose in defense of the foul chemical stench, Charlie asked, "What's in that stuff, Grandad?"
"We mix Ether and gasoline," his grandfather replied while pouring and wiping sweat like a true veteran of the field. "We'll use it to kill the roots so the locust bushes won't grow back."
Charlie gave an affirming nod and pocketed his hands.
Charlie remembered buying the gas but not the Ether. He assumed they bought it at the feed store when they went to get the feed for the calves that grazed the land. Charlie had wanted to go into town to the feed with his brother, but had over slept. The feed store was right behind the town square and was his favorite place in town. Comprised of painted, plastered and brick buildings, it was quite off-beat from the clinics, restaurants, and fast-food of the rest of the town along the highway. It reminded him of a time he imagined being more simple and honest. Grandad finished filling two jugs with the broad side removed and handed one to Charlie by the handle. He turned and began moving slowly, looking back with expression that told Charlie to follow. They both went to their knees before a tall, wicked looking plant. It stood ominous, evil, spikey thorns adorning the every branch, some so long Charlie imagined slipping and being impaled. He instinctively pictured his mother crying. It was an eye sore and Charlie was assuming how he would be happy to be rid of it... and the absurd thought of his untimely death.
Charlie's grandfather looked up from the shears he had placed on the ground and peered across the open pasture with the red face of a farmer, and the eyes of an old philosopher. The sky was clear and blue, losing all of its depth to the vibrant summer sun. A breeze blew along the hay and Charlie could see the wind dancing in it.
Both looking back to the horrid bush, Grandad began instruction, "Take these shears."
"Sure. These are nearly half my size." Charlie said.
"Probably stay that way." Grandad said, and smiled.
"Yea, I'll probably stay short."
"We're all short." Grandad declared.
Charlie held the shears, doing his best to imitate the hard-working, contemplative type air of the old man. He looked like a farm boy. He was short and stocky with short hair and a square jaw.
His Grandfather continued instructing, "You have to cut the trunk evenly across, and no more than one inch above the ground." Grandad pointed to where the plant met the earth. "Cut there."
Charlie slid the awkwardly sized shears along the dirt and grass until the trunk was between the blades. He squeezed the handles together. It was a thick trunk , nearly two inches in diameter, and it strained Charlie's arms to cut through it. He tried his best to hide his efforts.
His Grandfather dipped the brush into the ether poison...