Giving up responsibility does not come easily to me. While I may tell myself that life is a short bus ride, I act more as though it is a short plane ride and I am the flight attendant. So when I recognize an opportunity to give up some responsibility, I wallow in it---even if the urge to give it up is misplaced. And so began the chainsaw incident.

It began with a storm that knocked down a major branch of a tree in the backyard of Mr. Philately�s stepsister. Normally, we would have known nothing of the branch. News like that is not important enough to travel from Missouri to Wisconsin. But we were down in Missouri, visiting my father-in-law so we were there when the call for help came in.

(Heck, apparently news of emergency room visits is not important enough to travel from Missouri to Wisconsin. I am beginning to despair of teaching my father-in-law that I need to know that no news is no news or I worry more. I thoroughly expect to get a letter one day from my stepmother-in-law that says, �Your father-in-law died two months ago but he made me promise not to tell you so you would not worry.� But that�s an issue for another time.)

Anyway, the situation clearly cried out for a chainsaw---and my father-in-law had sold his chainsaw before he moved down to Missouri. So my stepmother-in-law set out for Wally World in search of an electric chainsaw while my father-in-law went somewhere or another for another supply. She brought the chainsaw back and handed it to Mr. Philately and he began to put it together.

I thought about supervising. After all, Mr. Philately needs a lot of supervision and I am sure that he really wanted my supervisory help in putting together the chainsaw. For that job, a man needs supervision�close supervision. Surely that raised eyebrow and long suffering sigh really mean �thank you sweetheart for such help. (Well, a girl can dream, can�t she?)

And then it occurred to me to follow Brainwaves� sage counsel. I would put up my feet and let someone else supervise. And I did not have to wait for that person long. My father-in-law showed up right on cue. Quickly, I realized that he was perfect for the job. Not only did he give lots of advice, he did it without having read the directions or even glanced at them. Even better, Mr. Philately listened to him without the sigh although I did catch at least one surreptitious eye roll.

And when my father-in-law supervises, my husband listens and, usually, obeys. When my father-in-law pointed out that my husband had put the chain on the saw backwards, my husband did not argue---much. He did say that it seemed that the sharp edge was in the right place but he only said it once. He did not point out that he had carefully compared the chain with the picture. In the face of overwhelming supervision, he knuckled under and did what his father wanted. He would never have done the same for a mere wife.

And then my stepmother-in-law and I waited for the inevitable. My father-in-law took that electric chainsaw, plugged it in, and started it up. He held it lovingly for a moment, listening to it purr. He complemented his son, never noticing the look of anticipation on the whippersnapper�s face. Then he held it to the first part of the fallen branch and���nothing. It did not cut. He tried again. Nothing.

He sighed. He laughed. He unplugged. And then he admitted that perhaps the whole process needed some more supervision and handed it back to Mr. Philately. I thought that he might be chastised enough that supervising duties would return to me but I was wrong. There, on a cold and damp Missouri summer afternoon, I could lay my burden down because my father-in-law learns like my husband. And there, on a cold and damp Missouri summer afternoon, the long-suffering Mr. Philately took off the chain, got his fingers all oily again, turned the chain the way he had it in the first place, held the saw at a strange angle trying to work the chain into the sprocket while seeing the process with his bifocals, and tightened the chain, listening all the while to the exacting instructions of the man who got it wrong.

Amazingly, the only thing massacred that afternoon was the fallen branch of the tree.

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