Hatchet Humor (something light for these trying times)

There was so much work to be done on the inside of the house, that for three full weeks I barely slept, tore out carpet and staples, scrubbed and painted and painted and painted. My hands became claws, shaped to fit the brush. When the moving truck left, I was beyond exhausted, excited to pick up my kids from their summer weeks with their dad, ready to be done with work for awhile.

However, just outside the front door of our new home, a nasty old cedar bush sprawled. Blocking the sun from the lilacs, my daughter and I knew it had to come down. We love lilacs, and the dark, sweet blooms, yet just a promise for late June, would need more sun to reach full potential. Katie, almost a senior, a tomboy raised by a tomboy, my mini-me, insisted she wanted to chop it. No chainsaw allowed. “We need a hatchet, Ma.” Did we though? I wondered. My friends and I often joked about our exes, about not being allowed to own hogs or rent chippers. I was certain a hatchet would be included on the list of danger items, but off Katie and I went to the local hardware.

We perused the aisles, and she took her time in front of the display, holding first one and then another before settling on a hatchet that she said fit her just right, just enough weight, just sharp enough to chop down the multiple limbs rising from the dirt and blocking light from her lilacs.

The plan was to chop and then use the V-10 Blue Bomber and a tow rope to pull out the roots. We moved to the tow rope aisle, hatchet in hand, and checked out the options. A few minutes later, the ancient Ace Hardware worker moved to stand beside us. “Can I help you girls find something?” Without hesitation, we simultaneously looked at him, and together our “NO” reverberated into the nearly empty store. He backed away and left us to our decision making.

I looked at my daughter, hatchet firmly in her grip. I looked at the rope, dangling from her other hand. She looked at me. She looked at me, looking at the hatchet and then the rope. We both looked up and across the store, where the poor man who’d tried to help watched us from behind the register.I fought back the laughter bubbling from deep in my belly. “Oh my gosh,” I whispered. “We look like we’re planning to murder someone,” she answered. 

We paid for our items, our faces straight and serious. The man asked us no questions, didn’t say another word, just nodded as we walked away.

We made it into the truck before we let our laughter roll. We laughed all the way home. We laughed as she chopped, and hacked, and swung her hatchet. 

The cedar was removed, but the memories bubble up each summer upon the lilac scented breeze.