Excerpts From The Life of A Logging Camp Kid: Episode Eleven

The Job

You can bet your odd-flavored jelly beans that I know how to keep my saw in tip-top running shape!

Everyone has their first official job. A lot of the time I have noticed that a person's first place of employment is in retail, especially in the realm of fast food preparation and service. It is an opinion of mine that everyone should spend some time in the "serving of others" trenches, for when you are covered in fry grease or removing hair from a hotel bathtub you will gain perspective. A lot of perspective.

As I came of age in a logging camp, my first official job was of course a little off of the traditional young people employment path. At the ripe old age of fourteen, I had been working for other people for a few years as I started babysitting and driving hay truck at the double digit age of ten. These jobs, however, were mostly for family, and they weren't an everyday, contractual sort of job. Thus, not official.

My employment status changed on a gloomy day in September when my father flung the door to our trailer open and bellowed in my general direction:

"Sis!" he barked, "I have a job for you, I'm hiring right now."

My father was the Bullbuck, which means that he managed all of the timber fallers in our camp. He also had recently took on the management of the saw shop, and as I was pretty sure that dad wasn't going to hire me to fall trees; I felt cautiously optimistic as I replied:

"What kind of job, Dad?"

"I need someone to blow out saw carburetors and air filters and clean the crew buses once a week." He replied with his customary eye brow raise.

Hmm. I pondered this offer in my brain for the micro-moment that my employment-offering father gave me before he delivered the deal sealing detail:

"It pays $4 an hour."

"Deal!" I erupted before any further consideration of what I was getting myself into.

The following day I found myself perched on a cracked leather bar stool watching my dad remove the carburetor from a Stihl chainsaw power-head. He made it look so easy. Apparently I had to observe that mechanical magic for a while before graduating to carb removal on my own, and instead found my first task to be removing gummy, sawdust covered air filters from the many, many powerheads in that saw gas and sawdust-scented room. My now librarian-self understands why I enjoyed using the air-compressor to remove the dust and gunk from the saw air filters. It was balm to my young soul to cleanse the detritus from that bit of foam and return it to the saw, dust free and ready to filter air.

Looking back, my dad was pretty cool for letting his teenage daughter work in the saw shop in the first place, for there are not a lot of women in any aspect of the logging industry. Growing up around cutters and loggers, I was used to the calendars that adorned their work spaces that visually praised the attributes of swimsuit models and classic cars. I felt at home among soda cans full Copenhagen spit, and even though I rarely use a curse word there is an entire department of my cortex that has a file of the most imaginative expletives ever constructed and uttered by man.

Yes, I enjoyed my new job. It's repetitiveness was relaxing, I got to get away from my little brother's invasive presence, and I was earning some money. All positive things. Then came Sunday.

"Come on, Sis." Dad called to me as I sprawled on our couch watching the Little Rascals movie for the 57th time (not an exaggeration).

I jumped up and bounded down the wannigan[1] stairs behind him. My eyes beheld the two timber faller's crew buses. They were both 1980's model, four door, one-ton pick up trucks.

"Your job is to make sure that the insides are both cleaned out every week." Dad delivered this part of my new job terms without looking at me. I immediately became a little suspicious, for I knew that dad's crummy[2] wouldn't be a problem as he had descended from a vehicle loving group of people. I used to be of the impression that my grandpa loved his trucks and cars more than his family. This is not an exaggeration. I plan on writing a family biography someday; it's title will be, "Wheels Before Meals" That should tell you something.

It was the brown crummy that had me full of curious dread, so as I am always one to tackle the hard work first, I picked up my bucket of warm water, Armour all spray, rags, trash bags, and headed for the sandstone mud encrusted brown pick up. As I strode closer to the driver's side door I was reminded that the Animal Bunch rode in this vehicle and my apprehension grew. The animal bunch consisted of Moose, Buck, Goat Peter, Weasel, and Ham. Their personal hygiene was not legendary.

I opened the door and was assaulted with a smell that still fills my olfactory memory bank with nightmares. The combination of rotting bananas, mixed with cigarette ash, snoose spit, decomposing ham sandwiches, Pepsi, and the earthy scent of sandstone clay is hard to describe. Some of the refuse fell out and bounced off of my Xtra-tuf boot. I returned to the kitchen and grabbed some rubber gloves. I cast my nose-offended gaze on my father, who was dramatically rolling around on the couch with more mirth than an orca with a freshly caught seal-toy.

This refuse is clean compared to what I had to remove!
Source

I earned a lot of money that day, for I was in that crew bus for hours.

Lessons learned while I was surfing the floorboard refuse:

• If I was the unethical type, I could have started a nice side business hawking cigarettes, for I found countless half-full packs within the floorboard-high heap of disgusting-ness.

• I learned that if you break up with your cheating girlfriend, the best way to insult her memory is to throw her picture into a floorboard landfill. Her visage will be forever tarnished with chew spit and banana innards.

• Sandstone, while in its liquid form adheres to everything, but as soon as it solidifies it takes a chisel to remove from every surface. This is time consuming.

• Armour All does not work to remove caramelized Mountain Dew.

I spent many an hour on Sundays for the next year removing the Animal Pack's horrid droppings. Not that I can put that little employment gem on any resume, but it was a character building exercise, so there's that. I am sure that many of you Steemians have endured your fair share of interesting occupations, and I would love to hear about your experiences. I enjoy a good old-fashioned "Mine was far worse than yours!" comparison dialogue!

[1] A wannigan is an addition to one's abode. Usually it's an enclosed porch made out of rough cut yellow cedar that one stores their muddy boots and fishing poles on.

[2] A crummy is slang for a vehicle use to transport people to and from the job site. It is usually an older vehicle and not well treated.

With the exception of the cited image, the image in this post was taken by the author on her saw gas-scented iPhone.