A word of warning, admonition, and encouragement to those who labor in the dust, in the heat, in the sweat, in the manure, among the herbaceous dreams
with the sun burning your ears, singeing your arms,
with the bugs buzzing and biting your back,
with weeds that twine themselves around plants and force you to become murderer as well as executioner,
with the knowledge that no matter how much you accomplish today, there will be more weeds on the morrow.
To you I speak; I mention no more hardships, for those to whom I speak know full well what dangers lurk in the vegetable patch.
Yet, Ye Stalwart Soldiers,
Beware of one thing more:
Wear a looooong shirt.
For in order to execute weeds, one must reach the weeds. And as the weeds reside on the ground, one's hands must be lowered to the ground. And to lower one's hands to the dirt, one must bend one's back. And the back that is bent is a good deal longer than a back that is not bent. Therefore, the same shirt that was more than sufficient before one's back was bent becomes a little less than adaquate to shield the skin. And the mercilous sun bends it's flaming rays upon that poor patch of skin till it is red roasted. And after that, every waistband of skirt, shorts, or pants rubs upon that poor, helpless, cruelly toasted strip even more so that at the end of the day it is raw and something other than pleasant.
So all ye who labor in the sweat and mire of endless weeding:
Make sure that your back doesn't get roasted, broasted, toasted, etc by your enemy - the Sun.
And that was ridiculous, but it doesn't matter. I can be ridiculous if I want to be.