Lumberjack?

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It has been a peaceful week. I was concerned I would have nothing to share with my loyal readers. It seems every other day brought dark skies, heavy rain and wind. I do not mind, really, but it is hard to convert cold rain down the neck into anything more than a whine, well short of an adventure.

Between frog-strangling rains, the days were as bright and sunny as anywhere in Heaven or on Earth. The sun has begun to warm exposed skin. It feels great! This is the perfect setting for high adventure.

And here it is.

The principal challenge in my life these days is the carnage that is my back garden. Several thick limbs are on the ground or suspended precariously by other branches. Each time the sun peeks out; I rush to the shed and grab a chainsaw. I have accumulated an impressive pile of debris on my front walk only this week. It is pile number two out of as many as four or five. I have a way to go.

Today is sunny and warm. After breakfast, I rushed to the shed, grabbed the chainsaw and attacked the debris. Things were going well. I filled my firewood rack and added another ten feet of length to the pile and a foot or two in height. I was considering quitting for the day when I saw the enormous limb hanging over the creek at the back of the property.

“Oh, what the heck,” I thought. “I’ll just trim it up a bit in preparation for a full on attack the next sunny day.”

I approached cautiously. The branch weighs over a ton and it could drop of its own accord at any moment. Like a bull and bullfighter, we seemed to study each other for a long time. Then, my plan complete, I attacked. Smaller limbs fell one after another, as I trimmed and cleared. I was five minutes from stopping for the day when it happened.

I tugged on a downed limb, dragging it free from the work area when I felt a scratch on my knee. The thought that I might have just sawed my leg with the chainsaw was slow arriving at my brain. I blissfully tugged and dragged the branch to a temporary pile. Then I looked down.

There was a tear in the leg of my jeans. “Uh oh.”

The concept of the spinning blade gently bumping my knee arrived at “brain central” and I uttered a magical incantation involving a deity, perdition and a small pronoun. I am sure the deity will understand and forgive me.

I killed the saw and began hiking up my trouser leg, all the while dreading what I might find. I took comfort from the fact I had not tipped over. After a long and careful struggle, I found the wound. It was, as chainsaw wounds go, a scratch. Heck, I could barely make out the bone of my kneecap.

Chastened by my dumb mistake, I walked to the shed and put the chainsaw away. In my cabinet, I found bandages and ointments left over from my fiery bicycle crash of last October. Somehow, I knew they would come in handy, eventually.

Now, everything is okay. I will need another pair of jeans and another box of heavy-duty band-aids, but other than that, I will live to saw another day.

Sure, the big limb won this one, but I’ll be back.
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