Good grief! Hub swapped out the used propane table under the BBQ, figuring it would be easier for me to carry – which it was. He assembled Mr. Heater this morning and fired it up.
Small but mighty. The damned thing sounded like a jet engine, which isn’t a bad thing if you’re taxiing for take off to some exotic location. Even better was the fact that the invisible cone of heat frizzled the toughest thatches of quack grass. Yowza!
I flame-bombed the front steps, standing back to admire the tiny puffs of smoke rising lazily into the air. Then I realized that I had to sweep up the dried grass clippings because they, too, were starting to smolder. Just when I thought I had one problem solved – bending down like a stoop labourer to pull reluctant weeds from between the paving stones – another reared its head. I’d have to sweep the bloody driveway first. Not what I had in mind, but I did it. Then, five minutes later, just when I’d got the hand of adjusting the flame just so, the damned propane tank was empty. After a volley of bad words, I set it aside to cool, got out the house and doused the little fire I’d started when I blasted some weeds in the cedar bark much and set it to smoking.
A day of new yard skills.