It's Quite A Ride… Stories With Jenn

Not everyone calls me Ragweed, but my brother does. This guy that I loved as a baby, hated through childhood, and is one of my best friends now, calls me Ragweed.

We grew up in the country. Our nearest neighbor, which happened to be my aunt and uncle’s house, was the closest and they were an entire field away. A field of grain stubble that scratched my ankles in my little shoes and stocking feet, and the field I watched potato bugs crawl across the leaves of the plants while I trampled my way through to go and play with my cousin.

I used to pick ragweed and dandelion bouquets for my mom. I loved ragweed, with its little purple flowers, and in such abundance around our house. Mom always put them in a vase or glass with water. She may have gotten tired of my noxious weed, country bouquets, but she always kept them until the blooms faded. I miss my mom.

In our early teens, my brother started calling me Ragweed and it stuck. It made my mom and dad laugh. It made me smile. It still makes me smile. I don’t mind being the ragweed in my brother’s field of life.

Besides, I always told him we found him under a potato plant. You know, big sister stuff. So I’d call us even.