Watch Those Fingers
“So … you can come out and help me right now?” A text I received from hubby, because to be honest, we have a pretty big place, and are often nowhere near each other. It’s a lot easier to text than search everywhere for the other half.
“Yes” I text back, my recently injured finger aching to remind me of what my help was likely needed for. Despite my trepidation, I head for the back of the quonset, where hubby has been working on the latest sickle mower.
The second I turn the corner, he meets me with a big grin, welding gloves in his outstretched hand.
“Here, put these on,” he says, that darn grin broadening, “that way if you lose a finger, we won’t have to search for it.”
“Butthead,” I laugh, and put on the gloves.
The girlchild’s boyfriend had picked up a second, sickle mower. A bit newer than the first, quite a bit newer, I would think. Needing a good deal of work, yet still better than the older one. Mister Fix It hubby put his talents to work, and turned a fiasco of a mower, into a fine working, well-oiled machine. Sure, he had to steal a lot of parts off other equipment, re-weld and repair previously butchered repairs, but we now have a working mower to use.
Getting it ready to try, hubby made a face and sheepishly smiled, “You know, I shudder whenever I look at it,” he nodded towards the sickle bar, with its many, sharp teeth.
“That’s nothing,” I grinned back, “I feel like upchucking, and my finger is screaming at me, to keep away.”
“Well, no amputations today,” he chuckled, “We have too much to do. No time for hospital runs.”
“I love you too, sweetie,” I laughed.
We fine tuned the mower. Hubby tried it out with me walking safely behind, and it worked great. Better than great, if there is such a thing. We have more hay to cut. Now, if only the weather cooperates.
Oh, and my finger, though it insists on complaining, looks pretty good now.
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