When Garden Tools Go Bad

The shovel wouldn't shovel. The hoe wouldn't hoe. The shears wouldn't shear. The rake wouldn't rake. It was the first time I had ever encountered rebellious tools.

That's what I told my neighbor. "Hack," I complained, "my tools are on strike!"

"Well, I can see your problem right there," opined Ol' Hack. "You can't expect cooperation if you don't respect them."

"Respect?" While I didn't know how or why one should respect tools, neither could I see how I had disrespected any.

"Well, sure," said Ol' Hack. "You call them 'tools.' Like they don't have feelings."

"Hack," I said in the measured way you address mental patients, "they are tools. And they don't have feelings."

"You called me a ho!" So maybe I was wrong about the feelings part.

"You can't call them hos!" admonished Hack. "Shame on you!"

"Only the hoe, Hack," I said patiently. "I only called the hoe a hoe. Because it's a hoe. Breaks up dirt and that."

"He called me a spade!"

"Have you no sense of decency, sir?" chided Hack. "At long last, ..."

"Shovel," I said. "It's a shovel. Same thing as a spade. Synonyms. I believe in calling a shovel what it is."

"Weird whack job! That's what he called me!"

"Weed whacker," I corrected it. "Getcher filament untangled. I can't believe I'm correcting the English of garden tools."

Ol' Hack was shaking his head sadly. "There you go again," he said, "demonizing these fine ... implements. This isn't an accusation or anything. It's just plain, ol' observation. It's obvious to anyone."