Lumberjack...Not

I played lumberjack for the first time this year. There’s something intangibly enjoyable about firing up a chainsaw. The smell of the sawdust, the slow descent of a nuisance tree, the look of terror on my wife’s face. Yup…”I think I’ll drop a couple of trees in the yard this weekend” is my answer to “Does this make me look fat?”

And you women think us guys are all monolithic dolts. It’s a tough balance you know, going through our tasks each day in calculated brilliance, all the while giving the impression that we still need help tying our shoes. It’s an art form.

I believe I was a lumberjack in a former life, but unfortunately not a very good one. Anytime I find myself facing a situation where there are two ways of doing something, one being the right way and the other not, I can feel myself being drawn to the dark side of the wrong way.

Part of it is not my fault. When will manufacturers learn to finally create things that can only be assembled ONE way? I once spent thirty minutes assembling a new grill only to realize I mounted it backwards. How about GrrAnimals for anything that needs to be put together?

It’s along these same lines that I found myself in a situation where I incorrectly notched a rather large tree right next to our new addition in preparation for cutting it down. For some reason I temporarily became lumberjack-dyslexic. I had dropped a couple trees earlier in the day, and I was feeling like a seasoned pro. This last tree would be a piece of cake. It was about seventy feet tall, and I had plenty of open space in the fall line. The only minor potential issue was the fact that our house was about thirty feet away.

My mind did the math…seventy minus thirty plus wrong way equals divorce.

It wasn’t until I was on the last part of the cut when the chain saw began to bind that I realized what I did. Generally speaking, my life is defined by semi above-average bouts of intelligence, interspersed with moments of complete stupidity. This was one of those latter moments.

I had in fact notched the tree on the wrong side, meaning that when it fell it would slice through our new addition. It would crash into the sun room first, across our bed, then into the new bathroom. Pieces would stretch into the original house, with the tips of the branches probably hitting the kitchen stove.

I think I actually heard snickering from the two others trees I cut down earlier.

I of course went ballistic. I was panicking so much I had rivers of sweat pouring down. I’m picturing so many things…the end of my house, the end of my marriage, the end of my career as a lumberjack.

Luckily, before I had descended into the heart of Moronville, I had had the sense to attach a rope to the tree. Now, I’m a big admirer of good rope, and this case was no exception. While I sat there watching the blade of my chain saw get flattened, I heard the rope tightening up, making an unnerving, “TING…TING…TING” sound as it stretched tighter and tighter.

It was increasing in pitch every second, like somebody tuning a massive guitar. I held my breath, wondering if it would hold. I already determined that if it didn’t that I was going to hurl myself in front of the tree because I knew I could not go through life having creamed my own house – the embarrassment would be too much.

Besides, knowing my family every birthday and Christmas for years to come would feature gifts with a chainsaw theme.

The rope eventually settled into what sounded like a high “E”, and then everything went calm. The tree had about a five-degree “houseward” lean. I stood there motionless, lost in borderline admiration of the entire scene. As the wind blew, the sound of the rope stretching ridiculously beyond its normal breaking point actually began to take on a musical rhythm.

That’s when the little voice in my head chimed in. It said “You know, you’re right Duncan. It does sound like a song. I believe it was sung by a band called ‘Oakee and the Crushers’. The song itself was a one-hit wonder called ‘You Might Want To Actually Do Something Besides Stand There You Idiot’, or something to that effect”.

I like the little voice in my head…so cute, in a blatantly sarcastic kind of way.

I ran to the garage to grab more rope. As I did I heard an especially nasty-sounding “TING”. I peeked around the corner expecting the worst, but the rope still held. I felt like it was just teasing me, saying, “Sure, you go right ahead and run around thinking you have any hope at all of preventing the inevitable. You CAN’T, and I’m just messing with you…HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Melissa poked her head out the garage door at that moment.

“How’s it going out there?”

Translated that means “Have you drawn any blood yet?” I noticed her doing a quick scan of my significant digits.

Me: “Oh, it’s going. I’m close to being finished. For good. And yes, I still have all my fingers.”

I held up both hands for proof. I’m not sure she could actually count them due to the shaking.

TING!

Melissa: “What was that?”
Me: (One huge-ass oak guitar, baby. Wanna see?) “That’s just the rope. I have it drawn pretty tight just in case. Say, you’re not doing anything in the new addition by any chance, are you?”
Melissa: “No I…”

I didn’t give her a chance to answer. I just said “Good” and went back to looking for the other rope.

Only I didn’t have any other rope. What did I do with that rope?

The voice spoke up again. “You don’t HAVE any spare rope…your other personality decided it wasn’t needed before, remember? Or don’t you two ever talk to each other?”

I made a mental note to do some research later on ways of killing the voice in my head without actually harming myself. Then I hopped in my car.

Now, I’m an honest man, and in general I don’t speed, break the law, or otherwise put myself in a position where I’m likely to hear the words “Bend over” from anyone else but my doctor. It’s not because I’m inherently good...it’s more because I know I have terrible luck. I could stop for a thousand yellow lights in a row, but as soon as I get bold and try to sneak through one time, I’m sure to get nailed. With me, cops materialize.

But I didn’t care this time, and I drove like a fool. I made up my mind that if I got spotted I was going to keep on driving until I got home. I figured when the cops got to the house and saw the situation, they’d understand…once they stopped laughing.

Now I have a new rope, and I just need to get it up high around the tree. So I did what I usually do – I tied a brick around one end, and like a cowboy I twirled it around in a circle, and flung it up as hard as I could.

At least I thought it was going up. Instead it kind of went sideways, right towards the picture windows in the sun room.

“Nice move”, the voice said. “Let’s soften the blow for the poor tree by smashing up a few sections of the house ourselves.”

Luckily, I was standing on part of the rope, and the brick suddenly stopped short, just like my Nana’s dog “King” used to do when he would chase his ball and reach the end of his leash. That poor dog never learned.

I reeled it back in and tried again. And again. And again. And again.

Finally on about the fifth try the brick sailed upwards towards the branch I had selected. Then something went wrong.

I love physics – especially that one about how every action has an equal and opposite reaction, or whatever it is.

In this case the “action” was me tossing the brick-laden rope with all my might. The “re-action” was when the rope, and more importantly the brick, immediately came careening right back towards me, aided by gravity.

Apparently that’s what happens when your foot is on the rope. Again.

There’s this phrase about “Learning from one’s mistakes”, but not me. I’m constantly doubting the theorem, and feel the need to re-prove it. Time and time again.

Rather than moving out of the way I cocked my head to the side like a confused dog as I admired the speed and efficiency with which this brick was “coming home”. But wait, it gets better. Thinking I was playing outfield in little league, I stood there and held my hand out, like I’m bare-hand catching a softly hit baseball.

End result? Brick – 1, Me – 0. My left-thumb took the brunt.

Now I was annoyed, and without a moment of hesitation I twirled the brick once more and sent it flying. This time it went straight up, forcing me to run for cover. The brick landed right about where I had been standing.

A few more determined tries later and the brick finally found its mark, which for once wasn’t a part of my anatomy.
Now comes the fun part. As I get the second rope on, I have to try and make it as tight as possible. Years in the Boy Scouts, and growing up with a Navy father who probably knows how to tie hundreds of knots, had no osmosis-type effect on me – I could tie my shoes, that’s about it. I admit I’m a proud member of the Velcro generation.

But at least I realize this. So once I get the rope tight, I proceed to knot it to death, knowing full well that when the two-ton bastard tree from hell (OK, so its name is growing) leans into it, those knots will almost disappear into themselves.

I don’t care. With the second rope hooked up, and with a row of knots that would make Bob Marley’s hair proud, I loosen up the first rope. That five-percent lean slowly doubled into ten, with a rapid succession of “TINGS” that all ran together.

So this is what it sounds like when your life is about to end, I think to myself. But again, it held. God, I love rope. Now I re-connect the first rope to the come-along, and with ten feet of cable to work with, I start cranking.

I sat there in nervous glee as the ten-percent lean turned back into five again. A few cranks later and now the tree goes almost upright. Only now I’m out of cable, so I have to repeat the process.

Great…all I have to do is get those knots out now. More snickering from the woods. As I work the knots, I discover I also have to “work the wind”. You see, just when I manage to get a knot partially loose, the wind blows, which moves the tree, which tightens the knot.

I don’t swear much, but in this case there wasn’t a single noun I used that wasn’t preceded by the F-bomb, starting with the f-ing wind.

I need a stick, something small I can stick in the loose part of the knot to hold it open while I work. Remembering the snickering, I glance over at the two trees I dropped earlier. And I smile.

I hopped down, strode over to my nearest victim, grabbed a small branch, and with an evil grin that would make Jack Nicholson proud I yanked.

Only the branch didn’t come loose. As small as it was, it held tight. I tried twisting it in a circle, but that only made it mad. I would have that damn branch, so I climbed out of the brush and walked through the back yard to get my hatchet.

Melissa spotted me from the kitchen.

Melissa: “Everything OK?”
Me: (smiling at her and waving as I kept my stride) “Yup, just dandy. Gotta get my (f-ing) hatchet is all.”
Melissa: “Your hatchet? To cut down a tree?”
Me: “It’s for the (f-ing) trim work baby. No biggie. Say, you’re not working near the (f-ing) stove, are you?”
Melissa: “What?”
Me: “Oh, nothing.”

Mind you, as I rummaged for my hatchet it did in fact occur to me that I was spending valuable time searching for a seventeen dollar concoction of wood and sharpened steel while about three hundred thousand Washington’s worth of real estate lay there being serenaded by a demonic tree.

But none of that mattered…I would have that branch, no matter the cost. I don’t tolerate snickering.

Eventually I found my quarry, I lopped off my branch, and it ended up working perfectly fine as I loosened the knots, and re-attached the come-along. As I cranked, the tree began to lean more and more towards me. Good news.

Unfortunately, I ran out of room on the come-along again. That meant I had to repeat my brick-on-a-rope trick. In retrospect I’m fairly certain I could have made some money via America’s Funniest Home Videos, had I thought to record these events.

I look up and spot my target branch. Just gotta get a rope up around it, that’s all. So, I grab a brick and tie it on.

You know where this is going, don’t you.

At least this time it wasn’t my foot that was the culprit. I took great care to push all of the rope away from my feet. What I didn’t quite catch is how one loop had settled around a small stump that was left over from when I cleared the brush away earlier.

Hey, at least my foot wasn’t *directly* responsible this time.

I whipped the brick around my head, let it go, and up it sailed. It goes about ten feet, the rope grabs against the stump, and the brick comes hurtling back to me.

I think I’ve seen this movie before.

Hitting me in my right upper-arm this time, it left a nice bruise. What was kind of neat was that I could actually see a partial outline of the brick itself in the swelling, including three letters from the name of the brick kiln company.

Brick–2, Me–0. My only ‘gain’ so far is a brick tattoo.

I eventually got lucky, and with a new rope attached to the come-along I began to crank again. By now I’m relaxing. In face I’m actually enjoying myself, sitting there cranking the come-along, watching the tree come closer and closer. No more “TINGS”…life is good. It was about then that the happiest sight I could hope to see occurred – the chain saw came loose from the death grip of the bastard tree from hell, and fell to the ground.

I could have almost cried as I looked down at my trusty saw. I was lost in a feeling of sadness, smiling just the same, hoping it was OK. That’s when I began to hear “TINGS” again.

Only they were not really “TINGS” this time. In fact it sounded more like cracking wood. With that dumb, grinning, sad look still plastered on my face, I began to look up. It took a moment for my brain to register that the tree was now falling…right in the direction that my arm was still cranking it towards with the come-along.

I had never stopped cranking, and although I was out of cable again, it didn’t matter – gravity had taken over. Needless to say my old body still responds pretty well, especially in the face of a two-ton tree falling towards me, and I managed to get out of the way in plenty of time.

That tree is still in the woods there. I flip it off every time I mow the lawn, which must really make my neighbors wonder about me whenever they witness it.