Due to the warmer weather we had, this last weekend was a beautiful time to get some things done around outside the house. I was able to put some caulk in the brickwork to prevent the wasps from nesting in the crevices and even hauled a bunch of branches out to the brush pile so the city can pick them up later.
As I was hauling one of the groups of branches, I made note of the fact that I was not concentrating on my branches as they knocked over one of my wife's tomato pots. (No breakage, dear...) Then I took note of the reason I was not concentrating. My chain saw won't start.
It's been about a year since I last tried to start my chain saw. Last summer I practically rebuilt it. New gas filter, new air filter, new tubing for the gas, new spark plug, new primer bulb. Did it help? It did not. I fiddled with the settings and pulled the rope pulled the rope pulled the rope pulled the rope pulled the rope. No start. I adjusted this and that and then pulled the rope pulled the rope pulled the rope pulled the rope pulled the rope. No start. I adjusted the choke and pulled the rope pulled the rope pulled the rope pulled the rope. No start. I cursed. I threw things. I screamed prayers to deities of fossil fuel powered yard implements all to no avail. The chain saw has sat in the shed ever since. Dead.
So, while hauling the branches I was thinking of the poor dead chain saw. (You see, I didn't have the chain saw for the cutting off the branches, which is why it was on my mind.) I even stopped to take the pic above.
But I have to admit, I was not thinking like a true Southerner. It might seem that, as a Southerner (or Southern-Wanna-Be) I would be thinking more Southern thoughts. More mechanical thoughts. Thoughts like "Gee, Marv, maybe it's the gas mixture or perhaps it's the framus widget." (It's never the framus widget.) Or maybe I didn't pull the rope enough times. (Input Silent Scream Here.)
No. I wasn't thinking any of these things as I carelessly knocked into the tomato pot. (Again, dear, no damage to the pot.) I was, in fact, writing poetry in my head to immortalize my lost fossil fuel powered friend.
For a chain saw.
Not just any poetry, mind you. A Haiku.
(Look it up, Bubba, I can wait.)
You see, I was stuck on the last line, which any Haiku writer will tell you is the most important part of a Haiku. This is not like a limerick with a twist of a word or wry innuendo. A Haiku breathes life and emotion into words and syllables. So, as you might imagine, my mind was preoccupied.
The tomato pot interrupted my 4th attempt at getting this line right. It wasn't until much much later that the line came to me. And so, I present it here. No, not the pot, (no damage, I swear) the Haiku.
Death of A Chain Saw
my chain saw has died
it sits in the shed alone
gasoline tears fall
Very Un-Southern, I'm sure. I blame my brother, Bubba-the retired English teacher and that darned un-oaked chard he once mentioned.