I’ll leave out the part where I sometimes pretend to swordfight with it, because that’s super dangerous and not OK. Especially since the machete’s primary purpose is hacking, and you might think that you don’t have a lot of hacking that you need to do in your life, but you do. All that said, this is my machete. There are many like it, but this one is mine … and it is AWESOME!
“What,” you might ask, “would I possibly do with a machete?”
My answer would be, “Um- what would I NOT do!?”
Think of the machete as the love child of a Bush Hog and set of good pruning shears, only way more fun and better exercise. On our property, there are three-ish acres of scrubby woods; it’s scrubby because at least part of it used to be a home site who knows how long ago (don’t worry, we’ve already found the well!), and then it was allowed to grow back up, primarily with thorny vines of catbrier and greenbrier, between the beautiful trees.
My fantasy of the woods on our property consists of laughing children running and exploring and playing hide-and-seek, not barreling into massive thickets of thorns at every turn, and so whenever I hike there I bring along my machete and slash down the thorns wherever I see them.
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You can do the same in your yard, wherever something invasive has been left to get REALLY out of control. The previous owner of our house apparently adored the invasive multiflora rose, and gave it free reign. I can handle one small thicket of the plant (after all, it’s almost time to harvest the rose hips!), but three giant masses of it in random spots in our yard, all tangled up with weeds?
The move is to machete the spot down, then mow over it- but only AFTER I’ve harvested the rose hips, of course.
If you know me at all, right about now you’re starting to say to yourself, “You’re talking a lot of big talk about garden maintenance right now, Julie, but that doesn’t explain why you keep that machete next to your bed, now does it?”
Yes, fine, I have begun sleeping with the machete next to my bed. That’s because, when I’m home alone with the kids and a cat jumps off of a table in the middle of the night, I tend to bolt awake thinking not “cat” but “murderer/rapist,” and you can’t tell me that my husband doesn’t think the same thing when he’s home alone with the kids at night, because why else would you display your commemorative Louisville Slugger wooden baseball bat by leaning it casually against a bookshelf in your bedroom, conveniently three steps from the bed?
Now, I’m not blindly hacking in the dark at every single noise (we’d have far fewer cats if I did that, for one thing, and probably at least one fewer child), but you know that scene at the beginning of the Dawn of the Dead remake, when the zombie neighbor walks into the heroine’s bedroom and attacks her husband, and then her zombie husband attacks her?
Well, I could probably handle that with my machete.
Mind you, my husband would still totally die during said re-enactment, but I could, at least, keep him from becoming a reanimated corpse and chasing me out of my own house, you know?
Original content from Insteading.