Chainsaw massacre

I'm a city girl, and I haven't had much experience with machinery. Sure, I've wielded my share of weedwhackers and mowers. But for the most part, I was a power-tool virgin. Until last Saturday.

That day, I woke up determined to rent a chainsaw and tackle my gnarliest landscape chores.

I was inspired, in part, by you, dear readers. I blogged a couple weeks ago about fixing landscaping bloopers, specifically a big, ugly bush that had swallowed the front of my house. Your comments were ruthless: "Show no mercy." "Cut it down." "You'll be glad you did." A few of you scolded me for letting it get so overgrown to begin with. And at least one of you pooh-poohed my wimpy assertion that it was too big a project to tackle myself.

OK. Why not? I'm a big girl -- why shouldn't I be able to handle a chainsaw?

"Gas or electric?" the guy at the rental place asked.

"Ummmm... I'm not sure," I mumbled. "Which one is lighter?"

Electric, he told me. So electric it was. I paid for three hours, went home, donned gloves and goggles, and eagerly plugged in.

I moved on to the barberry, which had gotten too tall and too thick to trim with hand clippers. Brrrzzzzzz! In no time, they were the height I wanted them. This was great! Might as well attack the juniper while I'm at it.

Finally came the buckthorn. My husband and I had spent many exhausting hours sawing through them last year, but we never got around to killing or removing the trunks. Of course, they were back, bigger and badder than ever. But they were no match for my blade. By the end of three hours, my yard looked like a tornado zone. And I was definitely hooked on chainsaws.