Clearing an Acre

How a true story can be a metaphor.

I remember standing in that field, in the warm October morning. The smell of two-stroke exhaust from the over sized weed whacker harnesed to my chest filling my nostrils, over powering the taint of the clear, fresh southern Adirondack air. My task that morning, was to clear an acre or so of underbrush and saplings. Instead of the standard plastic strips on the end of the weed whacker, I had a round saw blade nearly a foot in diameter that went through 2" saplings like the proverbial hot knife through butter. Or so I discovered. 

This was a task that I was looking forward too. Not only was I helping a friend of mine by clearing the land, but I also viewd it as a very theraputic exersice, some what akin to Scream Therapy. A few weeks prior, my fiance informed me that not only was our marriage off, but she had been cheating on me for months. To say I had some anger and rage I needed to release was an understatement.

Scanning the acre or so of shrubs and saplings, I can still feel the blackness as I thought, "all this before me is going to die at my hands". I do not beleive I bothered or needed to fill in the implication behind that thought. Though not a pacifist, this was not how normally how I thought or felt. I often reflect on this moment as I think about the impact that the emotional trauma of betrayal and infidelty has on ones being and soul. 

For the next few hours I swung that blade with all the hate and rage I was filled with, hoping to leave it out amongst the broken and dying plants I left in heaped multitudes. "That's right, run!" I yelled in glee at the rabbit I flushed, all the while realzing that I was running as much as the rabbit was. Leaves and branches went flying while I pictured my fiance and her new lover dying. I felt better than worse which was a step above the cesspool of betryal I am floundering in, I mean, was floundering in. 

As the mourning progressed, I looked over my shoulder at the devestation that was left behind. A rich meadow was slowly filling with the corpses of saplings and bushes. Eventually I would have to gather up that debris and put it into neat little piles. Like most things we delicatly stack, we later hauled those piles off for burning. By noon, I had the acre cleared and stacked. The saw blade had long since dulled, and I found the healing balm I felt while while I blazed my path of destruction had dulled as well. 

I have often looked at clearing that Acre as one of the lowest point's in my life. I've cleared fields and underbrush before, taken tree's older than our country. In everything else I had ever done, I had harvested. That morning, I killed - even if it was only plants and trees, I still revelled in the taking of life.

Lately, I have found myself standing at the edge of that field, the smell of two-stroke exhaust over powering the taint of the clear, fresh air filling my nose. It still needs clearing, only now it is filled with new faces, new disgraces.

Author's Note

I cleared that Acre in October, 1998.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Hopefully, you're over that failed relationship. I'm not a mental health professional, but it seems that your clearing of the acre was theraputic in addition to a chore that needed doing, so I'd say it was a "good thing." Did you intend to say "mourning" instead of "morning"? Anyway, I enjoyed this tale.

[UnSuB 23]

Kind of reminds me of when my mom and dad fought and he would take me out to some land we owned so I could play by the pond while he took out his frustrations of clearing the acreage. Things were always better when we went home so I guess it works. A nice flow to your words. Puts the reader right there in the moment!

[Marie Anzalone]

It is difficult to know what to write as a review in the face of such abject hatred and rage. It has been my own experience, that when something is treated with anger and hostility, a part of me that was gentle and loving dies along with a piece of the connection. Doubly so to be the recipient of it.

This was well written, and I hope cathartic. I hope you choose the fresh air over the diesel exhaust, this time, as you contemplate the choices you have.

There were a few small typos, but they did not detract too much from the power of the piece. If you'd like, I can e-mail them to you off line.