The Chainsaw Conspiracy

The buzz of the chainsaw sounded like thousands of  angry mosquitoes, effectively quashing my quiet afternoon on the deck. I closed my book, glanced over my shoulder toward our adjacent property, sighed, and scooted my chair around to make sure my husband did not cut off an arm or a nose instead of a tree branch.

A chainsaw in my husband’s hands turns him into a swaggering, spitting, beady-eyed wilderness-subduer.

Unfortunately, he recently located a chainsaw and bought it, against my better wifely judgment; but it was inevitable and only a matter of time. A man that is the owner of a little bit of property in need of subduing is hell-bent on becoming a chainsaw owner. At least my man is.

He asked me to go with him to look at the chainsaw, which he’d found on Craigslist. I went, wondering what sort of person would be selling a chainsaw. We drove about twenty minutes north of Westminster on winding, hilly roads, past cultivated fields and acres of baby crops that I cannot name and eventually arrived at a tidy house on a hill. It was a bright, sunny, breezy Saturday morning and a wind sock on the property was perfectly horizontal. Before I had time to consider why anyone would have a wind sock on their property, the chainsaw-owner, who was mowing his yard, interrupted his task and headed in our direction. He was tall, thin and intellectual-looking. As he and my husband connected over chainsaw lore (for which I had no interest whatsoever, other than safety issues) I noticed the man was articulate and interesting and was moving to the City and hence had no need of a wilderness-subduing machine anymore. I guess I had expected a squat, muscular, non-verbal, kind of hairy guy chewing tobacco. A sweat-stained John Deere cap on his head. He would look at us with obvious disdain; spit, ask us if we were serious about buying the chainsaw.

Fortunately, this was not the case. The tall, thin man and my husband, both preppies of a sort, had an interesting male-ritual conversation that went something like this:

My husband: “Hi. Are you the guy with the chainsaw?”

Tall, thin, intellectual man: “Yes.” Expectant pause.

My husband took this as his cue to give the man a  comprehensive background about us, his job, our property and all the reasons he needed a chainsaw at this point and has not needed one before, and why he is looking forward to become a chainsaw owner. The man responds in kind, and I wonder if they are going to bear-hug each other as a nod to past and potential-chainsaw-owner bonding. I resist smiling and look away.

Finally the tall, thin, intellectual man says, “Ya wanna look at it? Try her out?”

My husband: “Sure!” His eyes gleamed in anticipation.

They strode over, perfectly united in their maleness, toward said chainsaw. The tall, thin, intellectual man held the (rather small and bright green) chainsaw aloft proudly. My husband paused to appreciate the raw power in his hands.

Tall, thin, intellectual man: Hesitantly. “Do you know much about chainsaws? Umm, I mean…have you…?”

My husband tap danced around this question: “Yes. Well. Yes. I have USED chainsaws, but it’s been awhile. I probably don’t know much about THIS chainsaw, but oh yes, I am familiar with chainsaws, but…”

Tall, thin, intellectual man: Nodding in synchronistic understanding, “Well, maybe I should give you a little instruction…chainsaws are different, you know.”

My husband nodded. His demeanor suggested he is something of a chainsaw expert, but not this particular chainsaw. He stepped forward, crossed his arms and resisted touching the chainsaw.

Tall, thin, intellectual man: “So you have to push this button about seven times. Then you have to pull this string two or three times. Then jiggle this. Sometimes it starts, sometimes it won’t, but usually it does.” He successfully started the chainsaw, and over the buzz shouted, “I am going to give you the instruction manual! “ Then they shouted at each other about gas and oil or whatever it was that made the darn thing work.

My husband reached for the chainsaw as the tall, thin, intellectual man shut it off and motioned my husband to start it. He did. Relief flooded his face.

I suppose that to be unable to start a chainsaw that had just been just started would be tantamount to a masculine failure of some sort. I am 58 years old, and still do not understand the complexities of the (largely unspoken) male code. I found it humorous, though, in a cute sort of way. My heart did a little thumpity-thump of adoration toward my husband after he started the chainsaw. We women love the little boy part of our husbands.

They walked in lock-step, the buzzing chainsaw between them, in search of something to slice. The branch they targeted fell uselessly to the ground, killed by the chainsaw. They smiled at each other. I looked at the wind sock, which was now un-breezed and hung limply, and hoped the men didn’t notice me rolling my eyes.

My husband, after felling the branch, looked at me questioningly. I recognized the look as, “Do you think this is a good decision?” I obligingly responded in the affirmative, thinking, what the heck do I know about chainsaws?

And, I hope you do not cut a hand, arm, toe or leg off and that I do not have to deal with blood spurting out of a severed limb!

I smiled, then, because I knew this is what he expected and to react differently would be to damage his male credibility as a husband-wilderness-subduer-chainsaw-owner in front of the tall, thin, intellectual man.

I am a good wife.

The two men – one a former chainsaw-owner and one a proud, first-time, chainsaw-owner – disappeared into the house and finalized details. They emerged after ten minutes, and we chatted as my husband reverently placed the chainsaw in the trunk like a precious piece of china.

We talked about the weather, professions and life’s stuff for a few minutes, and discovered the tall, thin, intellectual man wrote dictionary meanings for a living.


I was astonished. My perceptions about chainsaw owners forever obliterated. If a tall, thin, intellectual, DICTIONARY AUTHOR owned a chainsaw and did not sever a limb or a digit, then I should not have to be anxious about my own husband’s limbs and digits. And I should not fear that he would start chewing tobacco, wearing sweat-stained hats and belching involuntarily.

As of this writing, my husband and son have successfully utilized the chainsaw to cut down a couple of small trees and flatten a stump. I have allowed myself a few tentative sighs of relief. Perhaps they will proceed with chainsaw wisdom as they wield the buzzing green monster.

I find myself wondering, however, if the chainsaw, when lying dormant  in the shed, is plotting to seduce my husband into buying more power tools. I don’t think I could handle what might happen if he bought a wood chipper.

And Then the Dogwood Bloomed

Armed with a lopper in one hand, and an axe in the other, I strode purposefully toward the part of our property where trees were being strangled by thick, snake-like vines. I informed the trees that they were about to be set free, and started hacking at every evil vine in sight.

I realized in short order that the monster vines were pretty much connected and that I needed to find the roots. This took a bit of doing, as the debris and dead limbs and weeds seemed to enjoy thwarting my forward motion. Some of the vines must have inched up the trees undisturbed for twenty years! Not being particularly well-versed in axe-dom, I yelled for my husband, who was busy doing a little hacking of his own on another part of the property. He shouldered his swing blade, and walked in my direction.

We bought our house about a year ago, and hilariously – or deviously, depending on whose point of view you agree with – we did not know we were about to buy adjoining property until we arrived at the closing table. Our house sits on approximately 2/3 of an acre that is developed, landscaped, and lovely. It is surrounded by Maryland-style split rail fencing and set back from the street, which we like. The setting is what sold my husband and me on the house, and we thought the adjoining property was an easement. A green space. We were encouraged to think along these lines by our realtor, who (we think, anyway) chose NOT to tell us that the peripheral 2/3 acre of brush-infested, uncleared, designated wetland was part of the deal.

At the closing table, which included our finance guy, our realtor, the seller’s realtor, my husband and I and various and sundry other people that I cannot remember because Maryland always overdoes everything (litigious concerns); we finally got a look at the actual survey report. Surprise! We are buying twice the property we thought! My husband and I blinked at each other rapidly, and mutually figured this must be a really good deal even though we were kept in the dark about the actual lot size. Maybe our realtor assumed we knew. Maybe we didn’t ask. Doesn’t matter.

Realtors and financiers poised to make a great deal of money are especially cheery and chatty around a closing table; and the seller’s agent – sensing the end of a long and arduous property listing – threw sensitivity to the wind, and began telling funny stories about showing the house before we came along. It seems quite a few house-lookers were not especially enthusiastic about the undeveloped property. Even less enthusiastic when he told them about the resident fox, groundhogs, squirrels, rabbits and deer that were regular inhabitants. He had initially thought these little details would endear the property to prospective homebuyers. Instead, it made them run like scalded dogs. After listing the house a year, with no qualified offers, he determined he would not tell people about the adjoining property, as it seemed to scare them off. Jim and I looked at each other and thought, what have we done? We excused ourselves for a quick conference. We emerged the owners of an acre and a half, part of which promised to be a good bit of work.

Which brings me back to the hacking part.

My husband takes the axe from my hands, and, as is typical of him, says “Watch this!” Somewhere along the way, he really had learned how to wield an axe, so I am duly impressed, and murmur complimentary wife-remarks. After a few well-placed hacks, the root is obliterated. We tug and pull and several tentacles reluctantly slither from the trees. I was amazed at how far-reaching the vines were. Many trees were near death, and I discovered a struggling dogwood beneath a maze of vines that I had never seen before. We worked all afternoon and liberated several trees. I will feel oddly elated if they thrive.

My 21-year old son, who usually avoids yard work with zealous fervor, joins my husband with no prompting for hacking and swing blade activities. I understand the lure. There is something primal and satisfying about killing an evil thing that is trying to kill a good thing. I know I am over-dramatizing here, but allow me a little creative license. There will be a point, I promise.

My son during his early burning stage.

I believe now, that to buy the house was a good, firm decision; and that the forested parcel was a blessing in disguise. To watch the progress in beating back the wilderness has surely been similar to what my forebears felt most days, which has been an interesting perspective. I have seen a side of my husband that I did not even know existed, and it has given me fresh respect for him. My son, the ultimate preppie, is turning into an axe-wielding, glove-wearing, vine-killing machine. The controlled burns my husband and son perform to get rid of the brush and dead limbs have ceased to strike terror into my soul, and I now enjoy them.

I think I am becoming a country girl, or maybe I always was. Reclaiming the land is invigorating.

It is the desecrating of the evil roots that gives me the most pleasure. Setting an axe to the root of a twenty-year old vine, especially poison ivy, makes me want to dance. Sometimes I chant to the tree, “You are free! You are free!” and yell “Mwaa…hahahaha…take THAT!” to the vines I pull off cringing, abused trees.

So here is my promised point:

My hope and prayer is to pull every evil, tentacled, snakelike vine off my soul.

Every one.

With God’s help, I do not want to leave them unattended for twenty or thirty years . I do not want the grip of bad habits, character defects, addictions, or snarled relationships to choke out my life. I refuse to be bent and helpless under their weight. I do not want evil vines to curl around my heart in deadly embrace, rendering it unrecognizable and still beneath a mountain of debris I have not swept from my life due to ignorance, lethargy or laziness. I want to pro-actively assess the damage, utilize the appropriate tool (in this case, a sword*), and obliterate evil at the root so it will never again have the power to destroy.

Our realtor probably did us a big favor by not mentioning that the green space was part of our property. It would have been a tragedy, I think, if we had decided not to buy.

Next spring, we should see new life sprout from the trees that we rescued from the vines.

I bet the dogwood blooms.

*And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. Ephesians 6:17, New American Standard Bible

The sword was an essential part of the armor of an ancient soldier. His other weapons were the bow, the spear, or the battle-axe. But, without a sword, no soldier would have regarded himself as well armed. The ancient sword was short, and usually two-edged, and resembled very much a dagger.

Of the Spirit – Which the Holy Spirit furnishes; the truth which he has revealed.

Which is the word of God – What God has spoken – his truth and promises. It was with this weapon that the Savior met the tempter (Satan) in the wilderness; Matthew 4. It is only by this that Satan can now be met. Error and falsehood will not turn aside temptation; nor can we hope for victory, unless we are armed with truth.