May 12, 2018
“I don’t want to live in a desert!” That’s been my stock answer to Linda’s recurring plea for her own chain saw. I like our trees. I like their branches where God put them. Unless the branch is dead or broken, I see no need to cut it off. Linda on the other hand, never saw a branch she didn’t think would look better cut up and burned. If I didn’t know better, I could be easily convinced that the Great Plains were once a forest that in a former life Linda had been let loose in. When she has pruning shears or loppers in hand, saplings tremble!
So when I told her last night that I had the Mother of all Mother’s Day gifts, it did no good to dream of jewelry or furs, neither of which particularly matter to her. A new car holds no attraction; a cruise or a trip would be a cruel joke. But this morning, a lifetime of refusal was negated in one stroke of either lunacy or love, as I plopped down on the kitchen table a genuine battery chainsaw—the real deal, not some toy. It earned me brownie points, I am sure, but I have yet to fully calculate the cost to the foliage around here. She is happy, and as the old saying goes, “Happy wife, Happy life!” She is thankful, and so am I.
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