This is a community story about a scythe. My scythe in particular (well, Bill’s scythe, but we’re married so you know, what’s his is mine and what’s mine is mine).

 

This scythe is of that indeterminate random-steel-farm-implement age. Probably one of those steam-engine aficionados could tell me how old it is based on the design (“They didn’t have that kind of angle adjustor until 1922!” or some such), but I don’t happen to have one of those guys (and they are always men) handy. The nice adjustable snath (the handle) may or may not be original to the scythe. Since it is truly unwieldy, and there is a family story of the scythe belonging to Bill’s great-grandfather who emigrated from Eastern Europe, the blade and the handle are probably not original to each other. But that’s of little matter, like many marriages it looks to have been a long a happy one — until long grass was no longer an issue for the suburban homeowner, and the old couple were retired.

 

What a story this couple could tell! A nice Indiana snath who happens to hook up with a slick European blade in an immigrant area of what is now the Rust Belt. But when they met, the place was bustling with activity…