Last Christmas my husband gave me a chainsaw. Just a little handheld battery powered one. I was gobsmacked, then terrified: what was he thinking? When we were newly in Australia , me anyway, building a house in a paddock, he gave me a try with his chainsaw. Within seconds it broke. Actually broke, not just the chain came off or it ran out of fuel or even just got stuck in a too big log. It broke. He took it back to the shop and I didn’t touch the new one. Now thirty odd years later, I’m supposed to use one?
It stayed in its box for a few months, gradually gathering dust, half hidden under the tv table. He charged the battery, showed me how to press the two starter buttons and its chain whirred round. I held it, feeling the weight and balance. I had to wait till I was was alone, for the first time. I took it out to try cutting some twiggy bushes. It started all right but slid along the twigs or ripped untidily, not sawing a neat cut. When I moved onto a bigger twig (the size of my finger!) I automatically pressed down harder and cut it perfectly. Yay!
Eight months later, my chainsaw comes out with me pretty much every time I’m in the garden. We had a big storm recently, which toppled two trees across the driveway. Pat did the big stuff with his chainsaw and dragged the leafy bits to our mulch pile with the tractor. Yesterday I used my chainsaw, cut them into lengths and size and mulched for a couple of hours. It felt good to be outside sharing the work, enjoying the sun, working up a thirst. The battery recharges in the coffee break. How good is that?