Tools (Toys)
Resting across the arms of a tall camp chair on the front deck is our new battery-powered weed trimmer, waiting restlessly for me to finish my indoor morning chores and a light breakfast of banana oat pancakes with a handful of fresh tart cherries. A few yards off the porch to the right of the driveway, an unruly stand of pampas grass sneers smugly in my direction, and most of the volunteer maples in the sitting area behind the house look like they’re wearing shaggy green socks. By day’s end, any overgrowth within the arc of those whirring plastic orange strings will look like Mrs. Ferguson’s third grade class on picture day.
On the surface, it is pure folly, how two grown adults would purchase something that weighs only nine pounds, eight ounces, runs on a 30-minute battery pack, and still point it toward 41 acres of nonstop photosynthesis in the hopes of taming even a smidgen of it. But here I stand, gloves and safety glasses securely in place, ready to tackle my white whale which, in this case, is a sea of green ombre so diverse, not even Crayola could pack it in a box. I haven’t been this excited since the summer I built the garden enclosure out of three months’ worth of scrounged pallets while Patrick tended fire at Sundance some 2,000 miles away. If there’s time today, I’ll take the mower for a slow spin through the meadow and walking paths, earning my tuna melt lunch with a deep sense of accomplishment.
All this from our friends at Stihl, bless them.
Patrick is the commander of all things tool-related in our relationship and I’ve never quite connected with the pride he feels upon each new acquisition. They are his progeny, babied like metal orchids, oiled and sharpened and tucked in at night with almost religious devotion. Available attachments (for additional purchase) quickly become necessities and he always offers justification to ease the look of sticker shock on my face. On one mildly unfortunate occasion when I playfully called them “toys”, he let fly a long corrective lecture that ended with the word “tools” expressed in bold font from his lips, underlined and italicized for emphasis. I know how to goad him now with this simple but effective jab and use it judiciously when I’m feeling impish. But the distinction is indelible nonetheless—for him, tools are not toys.
After today’s walking haircut session on the land, however, I shall respectfully disagree. Deep within my soul and psyche is a drive to neaten things up, corral loose ends and leave a place better than I found it. I fold towels with mother-coached precision and purpose (they must all fit in their designated space, no corners or labels dribbling out), put freshly washed dishes in the drainer according to size, shape and weight, shelve books from smallest to tallest and stack fallen sycamore branches only after breaking the longer ones across my knee to make the pile look symmetrical (it will also be easier to gather up and tote out to the wood stacks at the sweat lodge, also arranged by size and length). Anything that gets me to “there, that’s much better” easily is nothing short of pure fun and I shall laugh out loud using it. Prior to our new weed whip purchase, I tackled the land-tending chores of trimming and tidying up with a cobbled-together collection of whatever would get the job done in the moment—loppers better suited for shrubs and trees (don’t tell Patrick, but I used them for cutting back the stringy tough stems of ironweed and sumac and thick bunches of knotgrass), hand pruners and once, a vintage scythe scored at a farm auction. I trudged back to the house knowing that things out there looked a little better but longed for an easier path to that feeling. The tools Patrick uses are beyond my reach, literally. They’re heavy to lift and even harder to wield in any sort of effective rhythmic motion. When he pulls the rip cord to fire them up, his face is all business and it’s clear he’s about do engage in some Serious Work.
My approach is more Zen-like as I meditate my way through a patch of thistle, smiling and thanking the fallen stalks for understanding that our tomatoes deserve a chance to contribute to our grocery budget come August. I can’t count the hours I’ve spent on my knees hand-pulling weeds from the tight-fisted clay soil, knowing that down in the barn was a monster apparatus that would have laid it all to rest in less than 15 minutes and loosened the ground with its rotating sharp teeth. If only I could pick it up…
Today will be sheer joy as I press the starter bar and squeeze the two triggers that will set the whole 9-lb, 8-ounce baby in motion. No pull cord, no gas-oil mix to measure and pour into a tiny engine reservoir. Easy to hoist and ergonomically compatible with my small frame and limited upper body strength, I will lay down the Virginia creeper currently climbing up the ankles and shins of our volunteer box elders, clear the way for a future planting of cosmos and coreopsis beneath the studio windows and flatten the smirk right off that stand of pampas grass. This Stihl trimmer is indeed a toy that will deliver outdoor joy for many summers to come.
I’ll let you know if I can skip merrily along while using it.
