It’s Time We Bury The Hatchet

Quite symbolic, really.

Thanks for making the effort to meet me here in the woods. I know it’s been pretty awkward recently between the two of us, but I think it’s time we overcame our differences and bury the hatchet.

They say that if you want to get over conflict and move on, this is something you so should do — the hatchet thing. Doesn’t make much sense to me, but who am I to question the proceedings that have been proceeding for hundreds of years’ preceded?

Aren’t you glad we’re doing this, here? By the big tree. The one we used to hang out at and write poetry by. It’s really quite symbolic. If there’s one thing I miss, it’s you, me, and some decent poetry!

A bit of history before we begin (straight from Britannica.com). It’s rumoured the Mesopotamian’s and Persian’s themselves used to also the bury the hatchet for conflict resolution. Mind you, they tended to bury the hatchet in each others skulls, but the point remains — it works!

Sumerian history aside, I think we both know why it’s time we humour this ancient tradition, so let’s begin.

If you grab that shovel, I’ll start marking out an area of ground. Maybe somewhere next to this large system of roots. Seems like fertile soil lies beneath. What better place to bury the hatchet than in fertile soil! Fertile like Byron’s prose. Look at us, we’re talking poetry already — the hatchet schtick really does work!

As you know, I could talk about poetry all day, but we’re here for something far more important. This hatchet! This one right here… in my hand! It’s a Gransfors Bruk. Brilliant. A small thing, but a reliable thing — much like Top Gears’ Richard Hammond. Good things, small packages.

While you do all the digging, I’ll recite a poem — ad libbed mind you:

As we dig, dig, dig,

The hole get’s big, big big.

Deep we go into the soil,

A task that’s symbolic of our toil.

Our friendship repairs,

Mending all of my affairs.

Including the one with Ms. Pratchett,

As we bury this here sturdy hatchet!

Would you look at that? Just as my poem has wrapped itself up in its usual succinct manner, you’ve finished digging the hole. Let’s make our reunion official and bury the hatchet. A task that seems incredibly wasteful. This is a $39 Gransfors Bruk after all!! I guess we can chalk the loss up to poetic symbolism: “relationships take sacrifice, and Sweden makes good hatchets.” Water under the bridge kind of hatchets!

I guess it’s our dynamic, but I really feel like I’ve been doing all the talking. Would you like to say some finals words before we render this very useful item very useless? Make this more official. More of a hatchet based ritual. Something to really cement that we’re back on speaking terms, you and I. Remember that poem you wrote about continental drift? You could recite that! I remember it went something like, ‘our continents ones drifted, but now we’re reforming our rift-ed…’ Doesn’t really have the same nuance as mine, does it?

One things for certain, I’m glad we’re putting all this effort into the symbol of the hatchet rather than talking about all of my affairs — including the one with Ms. Pratchett. Rhyming!

Before we throw the top soil down on this thing, I also picked up a copy of Hatchet by Gary Paulsen — the 1986 Newbery Honor winning young-adult wilderness survival novel. Just in case we did this wrong and it’s actually the book that we’re mean’t to bury which kind of refutes my whole Mesopotamia thing. Anyway, two hatchet’s for the price of one — can’t be a bad thing!

Now that the hatchets are officially buried, shall we pick up where we last left off and continue our debate of iambic pentameter in the modern soliloquy? From memory I was for and you were against.