For the record

A9

By Jacob Erdman

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“What kind of a mind would think of doing something like that?”

I came very near to pounding my fist on the table for emphasis, only there wasn’t a table handy. I was considerably agitated.

My wife, who is used to these outbursts whenever I announce my intention of doing something which involves machinery, saw immediately that once again Jacob Erdman and the modern world had come to a parting of the ways. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said.

It had been a hot and humid day, the sort of day we had a lot of back in July, and neither the heat nor the humidity had improved my frame of mind.

I had been clearing grass and weeds out of the low electric fence outside the chicken yard.

The instrument, which I had bought some years before to help with separating the fence from the weeds, is one of those funny things with a little gas engine attached to a head that spins rapidly at the other end of a long pole—a “weed beater” I think it is called. I have had various names for mine over the years, none of which I will detail here.

A machine intended for heavy use, this one came with both the usual string head and a couple of blades for thick dry grass and for brush.

Obviously the grass had gotten down to the business of defending itself since the last time I and the weed beater had descended upon it. It sneered at the heavy orange nylon “string” with square cross-section, the latest thing in the ongoing battle between the grass and the electric fence, and remained upright. Returning to the shop I had changed to a blade with four squarish teeth, changing the plastic guard that goes with the string trimmer for a metal guard, and set out for the field.

The blade, which I had sharpened, worked well, mowing down stiff dry stems with enthusiasm, and the motor did its noisy little thing enthusiastically.

I had almost progressed from the first fence post to the second when a zinging noise told me I had a problem. Yep, the three screws that held the metal guard in place were loose already, and every time I moved the blade into the cut, the stems of grass forced the guard down into contact with the blade.

Muttering dark things under my breath, I trudged back to the house. The only way to adjust the guard was to tighten the screws and the only way to tighten the screws was to remove the blade and the only way to remove the blade was with a bunch of tools I really didn’t want to lug around with me and so had left in the shop.

One of the three screws that held the guard had disappeared entirely. Somehow I wasn’t surprised.

It came back to me that the reason this blade had remained unused for so long was that the last time I had used it the guard had almost immediately worked loose and spat screws in all directions. The only problem was, I had run out of replacement screws. I tightened the two remaining screws as best I could with an ordinary screwdriver, noting that they were intended to be tightened with some kind of tool I did not own and the manufacturer had not bothered to supply.

Returning to the fray, I made about half the distance to the next fence post before the zinging noise returned. When I got back to the house I discovered that one of the two remaining screws had also departed for Never-never land. Not only that.

The whole head itself was loose on the arm coming from the engine.

It was then that I discovered what is known in literary circles as “the last straw.” The screws that tighten the cutter head to the arm are large and easily accessible.

There they were, looking up at me. No problem to get at them. I reached over for a Phillips screwdriver of the right size and in a trice had tightened them good and tight.

“That should do you for another seven years,” I said to them. And then the implication of what I had just said made me sit back on my heels. I headed for the kitchen.

“What sort of a mind would put Phillips screws where they are easy to get at and then use screws that have to be tightened with some tool only a machinist would own down where the whole machine (practically) has to be disassembled before you can get to them?” Not having a table to pound on I waved my arms about and fumed.

“Dinner’s ready,” my wife said.

“Would you like a glass of wine with dinner?”