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striking chainsaw
Friday, January 4 2008
I had a rare housecall today, in or near Woodstock as always, and on the drive there I thought I'd bring my chainsaw to maybe cut up a large oak that has lain for many months along Dug Hill Road about three miles north of home. But I got out of my car and couldn't start my chainsaw (a Stihl Farm Boss). It had gasoline and oil in its various little tanks and shouldn't have had a problem, but it's a temperamental beast and today it felt like joining striking writers on the picket line. Several good ole boys in pickups drove by while I stood there in frustration in that snow bank on the side of the road, impotent with a useless chainsaw. I'm sure I looked like a complete freak with my long hair and a funky black winter hat, one that has a brim and looks a little like a floppy stovepipe hat, not the sort of head gear a good ole boy would wear.
As for my client, she liked my hat, saying it made me look like a hipster. Unlike others in the greater Woodstock area, she seemed like she ought to know. She went on to tell me matter-of-factly about an informal recreational prescription drug exchange program she has with some of her neighbors.
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