The Price of a Weed Eater

by

Six o’clock in the morning is not early on Chincoteague. There’s so much to do.

We visited our lot yesterday when we got to the island. Weeds are growing thick and healthy on our little half acre, the tallest ones being those that you shoot as weapons when you’re a kid. You know the ones I mean.  They have a long stem with a projectile looking bloom on the end. You pull the weed, wrap the stem around the bloom and pull just behind the head, and Pow, you’ve put your brother’s eye out. Bruce calls them grasshopper weeds.  We have enough of those to supply both sides of an army of eight year olds.  A patch of wild daisies surround the fire hydrant next to the road (they can stay, but I have to fight my husband for their reprieve.) Poison Ivy is abundant and at its most potent, dressed in spring green with runners shooting through the grass ready to sneak up on you with their itch. Several marsh grasses grow tall between the water and tree line.

Bruce is excited. He likes a vacation, but would rather have work to do. Now, he has a project, but needs a weed eater.  Here’s an opportunity to buy another piece of equipment. We head off toward Rt. 13, turn left at T’s Corner and drive a few hundred yards to the Stihl dealer. Over three hundred dollars later, we leave the lawn and garden center with the needed equipment, extra string, safety glasses, screwdrivers, a wrench, and a two gallon plastic gas can.  The salesperson throws a brand new brown cap with Stihl embroidered in gold lettering across the front into the bag as we check out. That was nice of her.

Bruce is like a kid, wearing his new hat, tuning up his new toy, wacking the unruly grasses off the future home of our retirement. He adjusts the carburetor on the machine several times until the weed eater doesn’t “miss a lick,” and spends the next two hours in his element.

Ryan bates two crab traps with chicken bones from last night’s dinner, throws the metal wire cubes into the water off the dock, then won’t wait long enough to catch a crab before pulling the trap back out of the water to see if he’s caught one.

I sit in the folding baseball chair, reading a book, feeling the breeze, watching an occasional bird dive into the water of Big Glade Creek with a “splunk,” and laugh at the antics of two male humans, engrossed in their respective projects.

After consideration, the morning was worth the price of a weed eater.

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2 Responses to “The Price of a Weed Eater”

  1. curly Says:

    Train! You got a piece on the island! Congratulations! Wow! Good, good thing. Good that you got it now instead of waiting. You guys are going to have so much fun. Glad Bruce bought a Sthil. Had mine for eight years of heavy use and just now put it in the shop for the first time.

    So cool to know you are immersed and engaged in the good life. Yes, it is true, working people, with imagination and elbow grease, can live like Ernest Hemingway.

  2. train-whistle Says:

    It’s the simple things we remember. Thanks curly!

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