My Shiny, Deadly Toys

Appeared in Pioneer Press newspapers
November 15, 2010

The van died the other day. The minivan that the kids grew up in and that came to be one of those things that your hating together makes you a family. 

It went in for a simple, out-patient-type recall and never left the hospital.  We discovered we’d been driving around on a broken axle, among other maladies.  So, rather than pump more money into a 10-year old junker with 100,000-plus miles on it, I was forced – forced! -- to drive home the truck I’d been spoiling to get ever since we bought the farm.

            This may be the decisive step in this transition process – the passing of the ultimate symbol of our former, gas-guzzling suburban life for this big, honking symbol of our new gas-guzzling rural life.  Don’t worry – we’re going to grow stuff to offset all the carbon.  

            “Awesome,” said Jefferson, checking out the new wheels.  They’re puny compared to his big rig, but large compared to, say, something merely large.  “Now you’re too legit to quit,” he added, generously suggesting that I’d reached critical mass in my farmerization.

            While I don’t think that’s quite true yet, I have, at least overcommitted us to the point that we’re “too broke to joke” – so there’s no turning back.  While salivating over the inevitable truck to come, I’d hoped to forestall this purchase for a while.  It would be nice if there were at least one way in which we were not hemorrhaging money – but, alas, it was not to be. The fates spoke clearly through the recall they providentially issued on the van, and who am I to resist the manifest will of the universe?

            But this farmin’ stuff does require a whole lot of gear.  And its price goes a long way toward explaining the chronic economic plight of the American farmer.  This stuff is as expensive as it is powerful – which equals powerful expensive.

            It’s also powerful dangerous.  Everything on a farm seems to involve sharp edges – most of which have engines behind them, turning mere hazard into truly awesome splattering power.

            Let’s start with the tractors, Fat Man and Little Boy.  Little Boy is more a riding mower-plus than a full-on tractor, though he can do a lot of work.  But, because the model is most often for lawn use, there are all sorts of safety features built in for civilians. 

            Fat Man, on the other hand, the grown-up tractor, is meant for more serious use – and assumes you know a thing or two.  This one’s for the heavy-duty work in the big fields, with the rotary cutter.  It’s driven by the tractor’s PTO (power take off) which, the manual points out in its own subtle way, will mess you up most seriously.

            Then there’s Da Ripper, my DR brush mower, an industrial-strength weed whacker that you push on two wheels and can take out small trees.

And, completing this year’s purchases of ways to jeopardize my health, is Husky, the Husqvarna chain saw.  We’ve taken down a good few trees together already.  I’ve got a lot of respect for Husky. He demands it.  Look at them teeth. 

Kevin taught me the proper etiquette to show one’s chainsaw the respect it deserves.  It includes appropriate attire, including the Kevlar chaps, the steel-toed boots, and the groovy helmet with attached ear protectors and face mask.  Looks quite ridiculous – but better to be silly with all my parts still on.  Otherwise, we could well be screening “The Illinois Chainsaw Self Massacre”.

            Kevin’s doing his thoughtful best to get me past the tenderfoot stage with my tender feet still attached.  “It’s a great way to lose a leg,” he warned after an early session when I’d gone at it in shorts.

            Thank goodness for these senseis looking over my untrained shoulder. With their help I might be able to avoid bleeding the red in addition to all this green.