Dunger by Joy Cowley Page B

country-and-western guitars but they’re classical – one made of really nice, varnished wood, the other painted red with gold stars stuck here and there. It’s the red one that has one string missing and another curled up like a cat’s whisker.
    â€œAfter that,” says Grandma, “we’ll go through that box of photos. I can’t see the faces. If you describe them to me, I’ll tell you what’s what and you can write on the back of them.” She points to a cardboard wine box filled with pictures. I don’t mind too much. As a job, it beats scrubbing mouse poo out of cupboards.
    I sit on the couch beside her. She’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday and they smell of cooked food, mainly roast chicken. Her frizzy orange hair with its grey roots reminds me of a tiger. I don’t know why, because with her sloppy mouth and hanging cheeks, her face is more like a hound dog. She’s got nice eyes for someone so old, such a bright blue you wonder why they don’t work well.
    â€œHow do you string a guitar?” I ask.
    â€œI’ll show you.” She takes a length of nylon out of a packet. “Do you want to learn to play?”
    I spread my chafed hands. “Grandma, I can’t. My hands are too sore.”
    She snorts. “Nothing like guitar practice to toughen up your hands.” She pokes the looped end of the nylon string at me. “You’ll be good, girlie.”
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    I confess to a certain impatience to drive the car again, but that’s not what Grandpa has in mind for today. One of the old macrocarpa trees has a split branch that is hanging down and resting on the ground, and he wants me to climb up and cut it off. The split is close to the trunk, and we have worked out that if I sit on the next branch I’ll be able to reach over and cut it, although, just between you and me, I’m a little worried about the chainsaw. Certainly I’m not ignorant about chainsaws, but Grandpa’s is heavy and old and I can’t see any safety gear.
    â€œHow do I get it up the tree?” I shout.
    â€œGet what up the tree?”
    â€œThe chainsaw.”
    He scratches in his ear like he’s trying to hear better. “Who said anything about the chainsaw?”
    Uh-oh. I look again at the branch, which is thicker than a power pole. Even though it’s half broken, the wood is split in long interlocking fingers that will have to be cut. The other half is solid.
    â€œBush saw,” says Grandpa. “It’s light. You can carry it up on your shoulder.” He fetches a saw from the back of the garage. It’s shaped like a big D, with the blade – the straight part – wrapped in oily rags to keep it from rusting. After four years the rags have dried out, but the blade is still clean and the teeth feel sharp. He says to me, “Have you used one of these before?”
    I shake my head.
    â€œEasy,” he says. “Use a light stroke. Push it too hard and it will bend. After a while it’ll stick a bit, gum on the blade. I’ll give you a kerosene rag to wipe the teeth when that happens.”
    I imagine that cutting a huge branch with this saw will be like painting a house with a toothbrush, but I’m happy to give it a go. Grandpa puts the saw over my shoulder, teeth facing backwards. There is a string tied to the saw. At the other end is an old paint can with a lid and handle, and inside, a rag swimming in kerosene. He says, “When you get up there, untie this here string from the saw and fasten it around the branch you’re sitting on. When you need the kerosene rag, just pull the tin up.”
    It’s an easy tree to climb, and by sitting on the good branch I can reach the one that has to be cut. The saw is another matter entirely, totally different from the crosscut and tenon saws we use in woodwork. For one thing, the teeth are literally the size of sharks’ teeth,