It became abundantly clear to me on Sunday afternoon as I was cutting the yews out front - the second day of this annual marathon - that I must be a writer. Not only was I standing there on the top step of the ladder (tsk, tsk) pondering the best explanation of why it's sometimes best to not have anyone hold the ladder, I was also thinking about how to best convey the story.
If it were as simple as being an engineer, I would have been thinking only about the physics - centers of gravity (of me, and the hedge trimmer, and the combination of me and the hedge trimmer), gravity, force vectors, actions and reactions. You get the idea. But no, I was choosing words and phrases, forming sentences, rewriting in my head even as I stretched for the top of the ragged bush. Come to think of it, I never did trim this particular shrub last year, whether for lack of ambition, oversight, or pure sloth, I do not recall. But it's on a two-year cycle now, by golly!
(to be continued)
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