Thistle be the best day ever: What a knit-wit!

 It is difficult to ignore the changing landscape behind my house. Trees that my family planted twenty-five years ago--plucked from the ground like carrots from a garden. The stream where we once waded is now being re-routed. Hills are smoothed flat like a wrinkled blanket. My once-busy bird feeders stood empty while their confused occupants rapidly filled out FEMA forms. Deer, fox, and pheasants filed their own Forward Mail slips before dashing off. Bulldozers and excavators packing thousands of years of eroded evolution into mere months. Mankind and machinery molding mountains into mole-hills. 

Brad returned from a walk to enlist my services for a rescue mission. The pond has been cut off from its connecting stream and a fish had been left stranded. Grabbing his fishing net, Brad invited me along as he started up the 4-wheeler. Assuming that this was a Point A to Point B mission, I ignored Brad's suggestion to change my clothes. My soft knit sweater and comfy romper were perfect for this mild Autumn day.

I was surprised when we roared past our usual route to the far end of the pond...a wild, thorny-roped entrance...a dark,  dangerous, jungle path slanted at an alarming angle. Naturally, I leaped off the 4-wheeler while Brad attempted to ram through the obstacle like a mad bull. Seeing my husband caught in the clutches of sharp, splintered branches, I waded in, using my back and shoulders to free him to inch forward. We were stabbed repeatedly on this painful journey, the trees trying to wrestle my net away from me, blood running down my calves.

Finally, we broke free. Now we had to traverse the war-torn terrain, abandoning our 4-wheeler to slide  down ditches and stumble over cratered soil to find this floundering fish. He was in poor shape...caught easily in our net. As I watched Brad release him back into the safety of the pond, I realized my vision of a "Free Willy" moment...a shiny, silvery body breaking the water's surface to leap clear of its unjust prison into sweet freedom...was not going to happen. Our musical accompaniment would not be a swelling crescendo of triumph but a melancholy melody of resigned relief. I hope he recovered.

We are all the sum of our decisions. 

Leave the pond to brave a stream to an unknown destination? 

Not a great choice. 

When given the option to ride the 4-wheeler back up that insane incline or hoof it home myself, I chose my own two able feet. 

Also, not a great choice. 

My soft knits were a welcoming magnet to every bramble, thistle, sticker and pricker in the area. My soft flesh was a canvas of cuts, scratches, and welts. I finally tossed caution to the side and fully committed myself to escape. The music...muted, beleaguered...started to increase in tempo...harmony and a hallelujah choir began as an opening appeared. Imprisoned in prickers, Amy Mosiman, human porcupine, leaped free of this prisonous field of fiendish floral and fauna to be greeted by my stunned husband, waiting for me at the top of the hill.

Naturally, I blamed Brad.

My cozy sweater and roomy romper were ruined.

Fixer-of-all-things, Brad Mosiman is refusing to accept defeat. Cue musical accompaniment as we spend the next few WEEKS plucking thistles from a knit sweater. "Thank you for helping me," I told him, not really wanting to trash my cute cardigan. Gripping the tweezers, Brad squinted at my sweater as he relentlessly plucked prickers from the fabric. He glanced up to look at me. "You're wool-come."