Did I mention I have a weed problem? This little patch between the feed barn and the hen house is just the tip of the (green) iceberg. Having ridiculed myself in print, it was time to quit procrastinating, gird my loins and begin the attack. The first problem was starting the weed-eater. I'd had it overhauled last fall and the nice man shortened the pull rope so I'd have a better shot at getting it going. The old rope was so long it must have been designed for a tall man with arms the length of an orangutan's. Even so, after a winter season of sitting idle it took, oh, forty or so pulls before the danged machine even coughed.
Just about the time I was panting and ready to give up, the engine caught, blew out a cloud of white smoke, and roared to life. (Drat. It was going to be such a plausible excuse to put off the job.) My weed-eater is on wheels and the size of a small lawn mower, supposedly easy to use. Not. I wimped out after clearing this one small area. My hands went numb from the vibrations and my shoulders just gave out from horsing the machine up the slope. I checked the time and it was, indeed, beer-thirty.
I think the appropriate term is "job security." There is probably an acre of weeds around the chicken pens and down the slope that I cannot mow with the lawn tractor. ("Lawn" makes me laugh.) I'd like to ignore the whole thing, but the weeds won't stay green long and will constitute a fire hazard when dry. I must and will make small forays, but not today. Today, I hurt. I'm not kidding.