The Chainsaw Blether
I had a dream. This is what happened.
I bought a brand new chainsaw from the hardware shop in town, an 18 inch 'Musqfarta' made in Germany, Holland, France or some such country, all ready to go.
A tree had caught my eye, you see, so it had to go, not that I would advocate chopping down trees for the sake of it, no, no, certainly not, not unless there’s a good reason for doing so anyway (far too much of that goes on already, don’t you think?), but this one – a dead conifer - looked like it might come crashing through the roof of the house at any moment so it had to go.
Preparation is everything in such matters, is it not? A chainsaw is a lethal weapon, you see, protective clothing is essential, so I paid a visit to the hardware shop to buy steel toe-capped boots, a pair of goggles and a luminous safety helmet with "Big Boss" embossed on the back in a luminous sort of green colour - a snip at twenty-two pounds.
Then the serious business of wood chopping began.
I removed a horizontal 'v' shaped wedge, 3 foot from ground level and half way into the trunk, to allow for precision accuracy and a smooth fall. Above this wedge, on the opposite side, I cut downwards into the trunk, stopping regularly to listen for creaking or cracking noises that might indicate a fall was imminent. A dangerous business, this chainsaw business.
Having cut more than half-way into the tree, I paused to listen. No creaking or cracking sounds to be heard, very odd, particularly as an energetic breeze had developed from the east with the occasional gust of wind causing lively movements above my head, much swaying back and forth, that sort of thing. Finally, and for my own safety, I decided that it might be prudent to withdraw and wait for the wind to finish the job.
So there I was, you see, standing well clear, awaiting a big gust of wind, my first chainsaw 'conquest' teetering on the brink, when a long awaited delivery of top soil arrived in the shape of a tractor and trailer that came hurtling down my drive with four tons of best quality top soil and - worse still - it was heading straight for my tree. I was rooted to the spot, you see, lost for words, gob-smacked. I would have to act fast of course, but what to do?
I waved frantically at the driver, a solid woodcutter-type of fellow who looked as if he could fell a dozen trees in the time that it would take you or I to don goggles, boots and a helmet. He acknowledged my gesturing with a casually toss of the head, a sort of 'you look like a funny kind of character to me' nonchalant flick, then before I could say 'Jack Robinson', 'Gordon Bennett' or ‘Good Heavens’ the trailer was positioned within striking distance of my tree and the contents unloaded.
As a teenager I had a friend who's reaction to any kind of dire calamity was to chant: "Oh Lordy, Lordy, Lordy..." over and over again and this was exactly what was required now. So I uttered the immortal words "Oh Lordy, Lordy, Lordy..." (for there was nothing more that I could do), at which point a mighty gust of wind materialized from the east and started the timber on its downward journey: a journey that began with a series of slow creaking jerks and then gathered in momentum as the distance between the top of the tree and the ground decreased. It was as if the tree had a ruthless and well-developed mind of its own, you see, and was determined, no matter what, to crush the hapless tractor driver beneath.
The driver was unaware that a tree was about to land on him until seconds before impact, but as the full extent of the situation dawned upon him his facial expression changed from one of cool professionalism to panic. One moment delivering top soil, the next about to be squashed!
He was remarkably nimble for a man of his age and build, however, and propelled himself out of the danger zone with astonishing speed and agility. The tree missed him by a whisker, you see, choosing instead to land on the front of his tractor, a glancing blow really that fashioned a dent the size of a baseball in the bodywork. It could have been worse, no loss of life, no injuries to speak of. So I breathed a huge sigh of relief. All’s well that ends well.
But shock can do strange things to people. As he leant against the wall of the house struggling for breath, and all the while spewing forth a staccato of foul language directed at me, I decided that there was really no excuse for this sort of behavior, a stream of unrepeatable expletives punctuated only by the odd gasp for air. I’d never heard the like of it before. Quite unacceptable. So I explained - and in the calmest of tones - that it was hardly my fault if he'd chosen to ignore my frantic wavings, though judging by the look on his face it quickly became apparent that perhaps the wisest course of action was to disappear, so I legged it into the house, bolted the door and hid in the shower.
During the next half-hour I was joined by the dog and the cat, both of whom, having taken their cue from me, decided that this was the place to be, so a cozy threesome we were - if not a little cramped - huddled together in the shower tray.
After much soul searching and chest palpitations I decided to see if the tractor driver had gone. He should have done so by now, I reasoned, and so I went to the porch and looked out of the window. No sign of the man anywhere. So I opened the door and stepped out. As I did so, however, something cold and very hard hit me on the head, extremely hard it was, a stunning blow in fact (although as luck would have it I still had my helmet on). Staggering back indoors I caught sight of the tractor driver running away in the direction of his tractor and, do you know, he was wielding a shiny boomerang-shaped object above his head. Gut instinct told me that it was a frozen fish, possibly a large salmon, and - if so - undoubtedly a salmon of prize winning proportions.
Now at this point I woke up, but the moral of the tale was clear:
If chopping down trees with a chainsaw, be sure to block your driveway off first, just in case an unannounced tractor driver delivering top soil decides to hit you over the head with a frozen salmon. Simple as that.
(Copyright 2004 Patrick Vickery)
History of the Garden Blether