By: Blonde Two
About thirty years ago, I had a chainsaw lesson from a boyfriend; not your usual sort of boyfriend/girlfriend activity in the UK, but I was in the middle of a year in New Zealand at the time and it seemed perfectly normal to me. Sadly, I wasn’t very good at chainsawing then, and I am not very good at it now.
I know that I am not very good at it now; because on Wednesday, when Norm and I were patrolling the paddocks collecting wood for our bonfire, he gave me another lesson.
One thing I have discovered that I like about chainsawing is the gear. Thick gloves, a snazzy hat and some really cosy (and quite fetching ear-defenders). That, I am afraid, is the only thing that I like about chainsawing. The machine itself is much heavier than those muscle-bound tree surgeon types make it look, it is also very, very noisy.
It is, I think, difficult to be enthusiastic about anything that could, on a mechanical whim chop, your leg off and leave you stranded in a muddy paddock. So I only made two chops; the first didn’t go right through because my two halves caught the blades (or are they chains – I am not sure), the second did a little jumpy thing which could, in my Blonde head, have been a pre-cursor to a mechanical leg-chopping whim; so I stopped, said thank you very much for my lesson, gave the chainsaw back to Norm and went back to my usual job of picking up sawn bits and putting them on the trailer.
Two chainsaw lessons, thirty years apart, and I am still not any better at it. I look forward to the next one; that is if I can find anyone who is brave enough to give a geriatric Blonde a chainsaw to hold!