The Life and Death of Garden Tools

The Life and Death of Garden Tools

Man, if I told you looking after garden tools could resemble looking after lost souls, you'd probably call me crazy. But let's take a walk down that twisted, earthy path together and uncover the raw truth.

You stare at your garden, that chaotic canvas of green and brown. It feels like staring into the depths of yourself. Your hands, cracked and worn from years of grappling with thorny problems no therapist could untangle, reach instinctively for that hose. Hell, it's a simple task, right? Uncoil it, let it flow. But there's always a danger in what looks simple.

Goddamn hose. If you're not careful, it's like a serpent coiled at your feet, ready to trip you up. The way it wraps around your ankle, it's almost mocking you. It only takes once—one careless step and BAM, you're flat on your back, wind knocked out of you, staring at the sky, wondering how you got here. And isn't that life? One goddamn misstep and suddenly you've lost the plot, flat on your ass, grappling for breath and answers in the azure expanse above.

Then there's the rake. Ah, the rake. Everyone's underestimated stepchild in the tool family. Lay it teeth up and you're asking for trouble. You think it's just a joke? Wait till it punctures your foot, sending pain snapping through your nervous system like a bolt of lightning. But life isn't polite; it doesn't warn you when it's gonna throw a handle to your face. So, keep your tools in sight, edges and points not hidden by the deceptive veil of grass and leaf. Visibility is survival.

You learned the hard way with that lawnmower. One careless move, one distracted thought, and that blade didn't hesitate. A brutal reminder that sharp edges don't forgive. Too many battles fought, too many hands bled to forget that lesson. Wrap those vulnerable wooden handles, bandage those small, slight cracks with tape like you'd bandage the unseen fractures in your heart. Better yet, glass filament tape—a little extra armor to stand against the brutality of the world.

Splinters. Those small, insidious shards that burrow into your flesh, much like the overlooked wounds of the past. Handle them with care—sandpaper and elbow grease, smoothing out the raw and jagged pain till it's bearable again. Varnish or paint those wooden handles, layer by layer, like building the walls around your heart, protective coat upon protective coat.

Metal parts, though—God, they tell a different tale. Don't paint the parts that dig into the earth because they've got a different destiny. They're meant to get dirty, to pierce the ground, just like how you dig into the muck of your soul looking for answers. But paint the handles—bright, eye-catching colors that scream against the monotony of green and brown. Red, yellow, blue, white. Anything but green. Anything but invisible. Make sure they're seen because that's their chance of survival, just as a person clings to visibility to avoid being erased by the world.

Those edges—shovels, hoes, rakes—become nicked, jagged, broken with time and use, much like our own edges. Smooth them out with a metal file, rough patches over with steel wool. Straighten dents with a mallet, pounding out the imperfections. Fix those breaks in your wheelbarrow before they become irreparable. Everything needs maintenance. Everything deserves a second chance.

Oil the moving parts. Let them run smoothly. Life demands lubrication for the grinding gears of existence. Winter comes, storing away tools in dark, dry corners, wiping them clean, coating metal with petroleum jelly and light oil, a thin shield against the inevitable rust. Much like how we shield ourselves against the encroaching cold of melancholic seasons.

Caring for your garden tools isn't just a task; it's therapy. It's recalling that everything, even the tools lying dormant, deserves attention, deserves care, deserves to be preserved. Every sanded handle, every oiled gear, every wiped blade echoes the same song: survival. And sometimes, just sometimes, it's about more than making those tools last year after year.

It's about making us, broken and mended, last year after year.