The field above the creek bank was rough, rutted deeply with tractor tracks from the back and forth of large diggers dredging the channel when the dirt was bare and muddy. There were large unearthed rocks and deep gouges dried as hard as rock in the hot summer sun. No one had ever come back to level it or sod it. It was left broken and ugly, with stiff, scratchy weeds growing to shoulder height over the entire acre. This field had destroyed a brush hog. No mower would survive the beating. No weedeater would cut through the thick stalks of the largest weeds. Our little Parks Department didn't have a huge arsenal of tools. There was only one option left.
All the other guys hated using the weed whip, or "idiot stick" as we called it. Some of the seasonal workers, high school students like myself, would beat them against the ground and break them if they were left to clear a trail or ditch with one for an afternoon. Most guys preferred the power equipment, the large mowers and tractors or, at least, the commercial weedeaters. Me, I loved the idiot stick. I'd never been a fan of the noise and smell and heat and jarring vibration of power equipment. If you put me out in a field or a ditch with an idiot stick, though, I would swing away all afternoon. Up one bank of a creek and down the other. Along a winding trail. Beside a dirt road. I was good at it. Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish. The rhythm of the swing was soothing, conducive to reflection and imagination. An idiot stick is the perfect tool for a thinker.
A weed whip is not a golf club. Keep the swing low, no higher than your chest. It doesn't take a lot of muscle, just a smooth cooperation with the flow of the swing. Newton will do most of the work if you let him. Swish. Swish. Swish. On a good weed whip with a triangular bracket, the screws that hold the blade will loosen as you work. Every hour or so you should tighten them to keep the blade in good working order. Swish. Swish. Swish. Try to keep the tempo. Breathe. Swish. Swish. Swish.
Every couple of weeks Steve, my crew chief and friend, would pull the pickup up to curb at the field above the creek after lunch. It was Texas summer afternoon hot, probably 105. After the first time he didn't have to tell me what to do. He'd stop and, without a word, I'd get out, close the door and grab the water jug and idiot stick out of the back. He'd nod at me through the back window and I'd nod back. He'd drive away. I'd start my pensive rhythm, clearing the entire acre by the time he came back to get me.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
