I'll never forget the day I became a champion weed-puller. It was a little embarrassing. About thirty summers ago I was a young boy of eight or nine, living with my family on a farm in rural Wisconsin, not far from Milwaukee. My older brothers used to spend a good deal of June and July helping the neighboring truck farmers weed their gardens. I don't know how they do it today, but then it was a matter of doing everything by hand. You got down on the ground and pulled the weeds one by one. The pay was about a dime for a row of radishes a hundred feet long.

One day I thought I would get in on this money making venture, so I too presented myself to the neighboring truck farmer, who agreed to pay me a dime for each row of radishes I would weed. He quickly inquired whether I knew what a radish plant looked like. I quickly replied that I did, not wanting to be turned down for the job. So I went to work, and about an hour later, I stood before the farmer, expecting a shiny silver dime. But sure enough, I had picked all the tender young radish shoots and left the ignoble weeds standing there gloriously in the sunshine. Clearly it would have been better for this farmer and his radishes if I had never pulled his so-called "weeds" at all. A champion weed-puller indeed!