April 8 Valley Life column

April 8 Valley Life column in AG Weekly

Chainsaws can be hazardous to your marriage

My husband gave me a chainsaw for my birthday. I had a choice: I could have a portable TV or a saw. Since we already had five televisions for two people, I figured the last thing I needed was another TV, especially with the weather changing and me spending more time outdoors.

First, I should tell you why I wanted that saw. Several years ago, I made my husband a deal. I would do all the house and yard work if I could quit my day job. That meant instead of being a banker, I would now be a house cleaner, gardener, wife and mom. Little did I know that 10 years later, we'd move to the country and there'd be nine more acres to tend.

In town, I could manage with a hedge trimmer and garden shears, but out here on Pauly's Folly, garden shears just don't cut it. The list of plants needing pruning is endless: a dozen arborvitae, two juniper hedges, two globe willows, a corkscrew willow, forsythia, lilac, and aspen, not to mention the messy poplars and elms. Whenever the wind blows, which is forever, I'm outside picking up tree limbs, trying to chop them into manageable wood for the fireplace or burn pile. I definitely needed something bigger than garden shears since my husband didn't trust me with an ax.

So, for my birthday, he proudly presented me with a saw. "This isn't the smallest," he said as he handed me my present. "It's also not the largest. In the middle, it should be just the right size for you."

Well slap me in the head and call me Goldilocks. Not too big and not too small. Just right, but before I could use it, I had to listen as he read me the owner's manual.

I could not use my saw standing on a ladder. I could not use my saw to cut anything above my shoulders. These were safety issues I must heed.

"Got it," I said as he continued to read me the fine print. "When can I try it out?"

Instead of answering, he told me how to fill the oil chamber, and to push the "oil" button to keep the chain lubricated.

"Ok," I said impatiently. "When can I use it?"

Outdoors, he held the saw out with one hand. "See how light it is? And electric. All you have to do is push this button."

"OK," I said. "Let me try." I was beginning to wonder, whose saw was it anyway?

First, he wanted to demonstrate. "It's easy," he said, trimming a few branches from a willow.

As the minutes passed and I watched him clean deadwood from the tree, I noticed he was reaching higher and higher. Soon he was standing on tiptoes, cutting limbs high above his head. The next thing I knew, he was off to the shop for the ladder. Then he was standing on the ladder, sawing out dead limbs.

Rrrrrrrr went the saw. Then my husband yelled. "#$#$##!! I hate trimming trees!" Like a 4-year-old throwing a tantrum, he jumped from the ladder and yanked at the limb that had just thumped him hard on the head.

"Give me that," I said, claiming my saw. "I didn't ask you to help in the first place."

With a pout, he went indoors to examine his head. Just before he opened the door, I yelled. "It wouldn't hurt to reread that owner's manual while you're in there."

To myself I snickered. Served him right for messing with my saw.