Manhood Test

Part of owning a home is dealing with the occasional trial of manhood it flings your way. It's helpful in determining whether you're a latte-swilling yuppie or a burly, beer-chugging manly man. I've already overcome a few of these challenges (Installing light fixtures? Easy. Unclogging pipes beneath the garbage disposal? No problem. Change a Jeep tire? Bring it on), but I have to report that I failed miserably this weekend. Are you manlier than me? Here's a chance to find out. For this test, you will need:

• One tree of indeterminate age, trunk roughly six inches in diameter, stone dead from beetle infestation


• One shovel


• One hatchet (preferably acquired from Home Depot, where people give you a wide berth if you roam scowling up and down the aisles covered in dirt, carrying a hatchet)


• An assortment of hand saws


• One sympathetic, willing, but physically unimposing wife


• One sense of extremely misguided optimism

Can you dig the tree out without calling in paid, professional help?

I should have known when the guy at a place that sells trees told us to hire somebody, but our dead tree was so pitiful, with its bark falling off and everything, that it seemed like a few shovelfuls of dirt, a couple swings of the hatchet, and a stern glance would topple it.

So with a blind, stupid belief in myself, I cut the tree down to the stump, hauled the wood away, and started digging. I got about three inches into the ground before I discovered the root spaghetti. Seems that maybe instead of falling victim to the beetles, our tree was strangled by the root system of three huge cottonwoods in the neighbor's yard. Every thrust of the shovel uncovered three or four more roots, some as wide as a finger and others as thick as my (admittedly puny) bicep. I hacked at the damn things for a good two hours, pulling more wood out of the hole than dirt, before I finally accepted my fate and called the dude with the stump grinder. He came by today and quoted us $85, which is almost insultingly low. I hang my head in yuppie shame, and blame the purchase of the Snotmobile for turning me into a quivering mass of loser.