If you thought the Humboldt races had come to town Sunday afternoon, that was me operating a gas-powered weed-eater.
I never was able to get the pressure right, going from a slow buzz to whipsawing about like a loose top.
Warning: Never give me a gun with a hair trigger.
Hair clippers also are probably not a good idea.
Just. A. Little. Bit. More.
Oops.
Buzz cut.
I’VE ALWAYS thought my husband, Brian Wolfe, and I have a pretty equal division of labor when it comes to the yard.
He mows and trims. I putter.
There was a time when I joined in the mowing. I’d take the tractor and he’d zip around on a smaller riding mower.
Then one day, likely frustrated with my unorthodox method of zig-zagging about, he said he could mow just as fast alone. And afterward, he’d make a point of showing me his lattice-work patterns.
To me, this was definitely a win-win.
And I was none the wiser that everything was not perfect. Which is what can happen when you hang out with someone who doesn’t complain.
Brian is the kind of guy who knows only one speed. Fast.
It was true, he could mow the lawn as fast as when I was helping.
And when he volunteered to help on the rail trail this winter, he went at it full bore.
Next thing I know, he needs repairing and is under stern orders to take it easy, which is harder than it sounds.
After two weeks without a cut, our lawn was close to needing haying. So Friday after work I hopped on the tractor and mowed until dark.
Brian dared not observe, because, of course, I went about willy-nilly, letting random thoughts dictate the course.
That night my lower half ached, and, naturally, I complained.
Brian merely nodded, saying yes, it’s more than a matter of just “riding” along.
