Yardwork

I know, I know. Yardwork is not an adventure, and does not warrant a post. But I can justify it! Plus, it's my damn blog, and I can write whatever I want.

I haven't had full-time access to a yard since I moved out of Dad's house. I miss it. I miss climbing in trees, chasing the dog, listening to the bugs... and sometimes, I even miss the yardwork. I discussed this with one of my aunts, who came over to help one afternoon. While we're doing yardwork, we just want to know when we'll be done. But when we finish, it feels good. All the leaves have been raked, the sticks have been mulched, and everything smells like fresh-cut grass. And I don't get any of that sitting in my apartment. No matter how much I work in here, no matter what I accomplish, I don't get that feeling of accomplishment that I get with yardwork.

Plus, power tools.

My hat is already covered in sawdust. The tiny person near my hand is Dad.

On this trip, "power tools" meant a chainsaw, Dad's mulcher (which will eat a 3-inch diameter limb as easily as you can chug a glass of water), and this sixty-foot articulating boom lift. We rented it so I could take down the trees from the top. Dad's yard has too many other trees (and the dead trees were too close to the house, the garage, and the dog coop) to just slice through them at the bottom and hope for the best. So I did what I often do when helping Dad with trees: get really far from the ground, and take a chainsaw for company.

Stay high, sweet chariot.

In the past, that's usually meant a ladder, or me clambering up the tree and dropping a rope to Dad so he could send me the chainsaw while I tie myself to the trunk. This time, I spent three days driving around his yard in something that handled like a tank. It took a little practice, but I got pretty good at getting the basket where I wanted to be, although my technique allowed for a little bit of banging into things I was going to cut down anyway.