A gardener’s tools are the means by which he transforms wilderness to wonder and converts unruly undergrowth to manicured marvel.
My father, a keen gardener had a vast selection of specialized weaponry for excavating ground, modifying the shape of bushes and assisting with the planting and removal of variant plant life. He actually had to build a second garden shed to house them all, but I was more minimalist in my approach. Because of my aforementioned lack of gardening expertise and enthusiasm, I really didn’t poses very much of a selection. What little I did have would neither instill pride of ownership nor inspire envy among my neighbors.
I had a large plastic rake with about a third of the prongs missing, two long handled shovels, one with a flat blade and one of a more pointed design, both of them in excellent and pristine condition. Additionally I possessed a bucket containing a selection of hand tools. I had once possessed a spade. A very practical implement of useful size, but unfortunately I had loaned it to a family member, who up until this day still fails to acknowledge the event. Ironically that same family member would later buy me a hoe as a birthday gift.I would have never purchased a hoe for myself, and was not particularly thrilled at receiving this object as a present. To be honest even at the risk of offending the gift giver, I had never really found much use for the hoe. Its principal design objective is that of weeding and soil cultivation, but I never much enjoyed these tasks. Weeding, unless it is accomplished using either fire or hazardous chemicals, is backbreaking, soul destroying work that no matter how thoroughly it is performed, will need repeating in three more days.
Ground cultivation is something that I had not previously seen the need for since it does not produce any drastic or noticeable change in the appearance of the soil. I have always found that I prefer tools which have a less subtle effect on the landscape, things like chainsaws or for that matter anything that is gas powered and has a rapidly moving blade.
One of my prized possessions was a mechanical hedge trimmer. It employed one of those highly desirable rapidly moving blade systems not unlike the cutting apparatus on the front of a combine harvester. It had originally been red but years of misuse and abuse had taken their toll on the device and now its paintwork had faded with large portions of it’s finish covered with an even coat of rust. It had accumulated numerous modifications over the years including a replaced mismatched handle, and an on/off switch that had once been part of some equally obscure electrical device. I think it was one of the first ever made, and still sported the mounting holes where a small steam engine might have been attached for powering it before the advent of electricity. The effectiveness of this elderly piece of equipment had deteriorated of late and I feared that it would soon grind its sharpened surfaces to a standstill, making it of interest only to antique dealers and collectors of rare and unusual garden equipment.
But one can not always depend on the availability of electricity, especially in Florida where an unexpected and unwelcome hurricane can deprive entire neighborhoods of power for days on end, and for those energy challenged situations I had a back up tool
About a year before we moved to Georgia, I had visited a local flea market to haggle down the price on a pair of shoes. This market was a bargain hunter’s paradise, where deals could be found on everything from illegally copied DVDs to dental implements. It was not in the most affluent or law abiding location, so I tucked my wallet in my sock and set forth to wander the narrow crowded walkways with caution. It was an interesting adventure to marvel at the goods on display, many of questionable origin, and to sport with the multi cultural characters competing for my business. But as I penetrated deeper into the perilous bazaar, I became increasingly uneasy, and acutely aware of the piercing and hostile glances from the local patrons.
Just at the point where I began to fear for my life I noticed one particular vendor’s impressive display of edged weapons. Knives, swords, axes, cutting and chopping utensils of all forms and dimensions were on display, and there at the end of his wooden table was a stack of ten or fifteen machetes – all available for less than the price of a fast food meal. I picked one up and weighed it carefully in my hand. It had a roughly crafted wooden handle and a long steel sharpened blade that glinted with intense points of light in the bright south Florida sunshine. I looked like the sort of thing you would expect to find in the hands of a worker in the fields of a small Caribbean island as he harvests tobacco or sugar cane. Or perhaps you would picture it in the hands of a revolutionary warrior in some small South American country as he runs through the streets accompanied by the rest of his angry mob, blood stained and screaming for and end to tyranny and oppression.
At the time I didn’t feel the need to possess one of these dangerous oversized knifes, but as I wielded it and waved it through the air in the style of a buccaneer I was filled with a profound sense of security. I noticed that my apprehension at being surrounded by the more hostile elements of this shopping arena dissipated, and my fear was magically transformed into a surge of confidence.
I purchased it immediately, held it high and proud, adopted the facial expression of a metal patient, and was amazed by the way the crowed seamed to just part for me as I walked back to my car.
But no matter if it was trimming overgrown shrubs, pruning a bush, slicing through plastic pipe or even severing electrical wire the item that I found my self reaching for most often was the dreaded finger crusher. But a word of caution, if you find that my description of this item is so utilitarian in nature, and versatile in its application that you decide that you simply must have one, don’t walk up to your local garden shop sales person and say “do you have any finger crushers?” because the correct name for them is I believe a branch lopper. Over the years I have found that this tool could adapt to almost any task from cutting rope to trimming small tree limbs. It is true that there is a limit in tree limb girth, beyond that of the finger crusher’s bite radius, but for those jobs I usually resort to a Black and Decker seven inch circular saw.
Stephen R. Drage
Author: MUD LANE
