by Linda Batey

Created on: June 02, 2009

It has been said that patience is a virtue, one that is totally missing from my husband's personality. Over the years he has improved, but he will never be considered a patient man. Nor will Jim ever been known as a mechanically-inclined person. Enter the weed whacker incident a few years ago.

Over the years, I have created a beautiful yard with lots of stone walls, cedar rail fences and perennials, but keeping the grass that grew between the lawn mower's path and the landscape features was too much for a hand clipper, so I decided to buy a weed whacker. Being cheap, I opted for the bottom of the line model. We discovered fairly early on that it had two distinct features that we could have done without: it was nearly impossible to start, and the spool that held the line would just fall off at the worst possible moment. In retrospect, perhaps the bottom of the line model was an example of you get what you pay for.

One beautiful Saturday morning Jim announced that he was going out to mow the lawn and trim up with the weed whacker. I stood at the kitchen window washing the breakfast dishes and watching the flashes of bright birds at the feeder in the backyard. I finished cleaning the kitchen to the sound of the lawnmower.

Our den, which is on the back side of our home was one of our favorite rooms in the house. Jim had his big roll top desk and his fly-tying stuff set up there, his gun cabinet and my computer made the den a well-used room. After I finished the kitchen I went to the den to check my email and print off some documents. As I switched on the computer, the lawn mower stopped. A few moments later, I heard the familiar p-d-d-d-d! p-d-d-d-d! as he attempted to start the weed whacker. I peeked out the back window and smiled at the sight of Jim and the weed whacker surrounded by curls of line in a ten-foot radius. I could tell from the vein popping out on his neck that he wasn't happy. He was trying to gather the line, which was trying, and succeeding, in tangling into a web any spider would have been proud of.

P-d-d-d-d! P-d-d-d-d!

I shook my head and got back to my task.

A few moments later, P-d-d-d-d! P-d-d-d-d!

Suddenly I heard the back screen door slam and heavy, angry footfalls headed down the hall. I was half expecting him to tell me he was going to go buy a higher-quality weed whacker, but instead he headed for the gun cabinet, angrily snatching one of his shotguns from it's spot. As soon as I realized what he had in mind I asked, Do I have time to get the camera?

No. he said tersely as he retraced his steps back down the hall. I was hot on his heels to see what he was going to do.

He leaned the shotgun up against the cedar rail fence and gathered up the weed whacker and brought it over to his shotgun, curls of line dragging behind him. He sat the whole jumble of parts, line and weed whacker on the ground, picked up his shotgun and gave the weed whacker both barrels at a distance of about six feet.

Later that day he took it to the transfer station and before he even left the yard, an attendant was picking it out of the scrap metal heap.

A few weeks later my mother called and said her weed whacker wouldn't start; could Jim come over and take a look at it? He told her he'd gladly take a shot at it.

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