A Colorful Conversation With A Bullbuck In Residence
Graphic representation of today's interpersonal interactions at the logging operation
By now, anyone who had been reading my blog knows that my father is helping a logging camp get up and running. His contribution is in the timber falling section of that lumber harvesting economic pie chart. He calls me every other day or so with more comical goings-on that tend to send me into stitches. Here's a selection from tonight's drama filled dispatch:
“Youweresupposedtoputmeinroom14!!!” Dad rudely yelled without a breath into the phone as a way of greeting.
“What?” I replied with giggled confusion inflection.
“Room 14! Spammit[1]! Room 14! COITUS[2]!” he shouted in return.
“Dad.” I sighed in exasperation, “I don't even know what that means.”
“It's Jerry. Jerry lost it today. Rosetta Stone [3] put him in room 12 instead of room 14 like last year. It sent him over the edge.” he mused.
Apparently Jerry is the 70 year old shovel operator. He runs one of these:
Most shovel operators that I have known in life were jovial men, but then again, I can't imagine moving logs with one when I am in my golden years. Dad went on,
“He looks like Mr. Beasley from the Disney movies, only meaner. He's a little guy and he has the personality of a harassed ermine.”
“Why is he so hateful, Dad?” I queried.
“It's like your brother said, there's a bunch of them that shoulda retired years ago,” Dad sighed and went on, “This morning he burst in the door and said, 'I don't envy you, Ron. Where the Hades did you find those idiots? Those sum-witches can cut!' By the time he finished the last sentence, he was yelling.”
Dad and I were in full mocking-laugh at this point, for my father calls me not only to share, but to de-compress, for there is just a bit of stress involved in managing the care and housing of timberfallers. This stress has been magnified by the fact that they are driving 2 hours through the wilderness to cut everyday as camp is not quite ready yet.
“Dennis the Menace, my assistant is even better though,” Dad expressed this tidbit of info with no small amount of amused sarcasm.
“How so, Fajah of mine?” I replied giddily.
“He came up to me today and started speaking so fast that I couldn't even understand anything other than the words smoke, crack, truck drivers, and “glass pricks.” Dad returned.
“Um. I'm at a loss here Dad,” I giggled in elated reply, for Dad spent the next thirty seconds mimicking Dennis' high pitched, word-vomited soliloquy.
When we both calmed down, it came out that Dennis had busted a couple log truck drivers smoking an illegal substance in a pipe. He proceeded to squeal on them to the operation's owner, for there is a no tolerance policy for any kind of drug use on the job. Dennis then became worried, in his high strung way, that the drivers were going to kill him for grassing on them. What's that old saying: “Snitches Get Stitches?” That kinda makes me wonder what synthetic narcotic-addled truck drivers would do to a squealer...hmm.....
Today's situation was definitely not as cozy as two cats in a basket...
Dad's definitely got his work cut out for him. Tonight's conversation hit on an interesting workforce trend tidbit. Most of the people left in the logging industry that know how to fall timber and run the required equipment are getting pretty advanced in age. There is a huge age and skill gap in the timber industry, and it has made staffing the enterprise quite a challenge. It takes some serious skill to properly fall a Spruce tree that is four foot in diameter; you can die easily in my Dad's line of work, and we have had to say untimely goodbyes to friends and colleagues over the years due to the precarious nature of the job. There seems to be a strange juxtaposition in our world between retirement age people not being able to or wanting to retire, and young people being reluctant or unable for a multitude of reasons to take on traditional skilled hard labor jobs.
This adventure that Dad is on is a throw back to a different era of logging, as most tree harvesting is done mechanically now. I find it amusing to see how the elders of the trade are getting things up and running, and at the same time there is new blood getting their boots sappy as they break into the trade. It makes me wonder if there are other bits of Renaissance happening in other traditional trades throughout the world?
[1] A curse word that could also be you talking about the time you blocked the creek at your Nana's house when you were four. Example: “Look, Nana! I dammit!”
[2] The four letter term for pro-creation. This particular word is used as all parts of speech by loggers. Noun, adjective, heck, I bet even it's been utilized as a preposition. It rhymes with duck, and I have heard it applied in every possible grammatical situation.
[3] The camp's owner has a wife. Her name is Rosa. Dad is incapable of referring to someone by their actual name. I kind of think this tendency is so that he can remember the thousands of people that he has met in his life, a name association technique so to speak. I just feel bad for the people that get names like: “Stud-Muffin-Field-Mouse, Stinky Pete, Scabies, Pigpen, etc...” I honestly didn't know that my Uncle Buck's name was Kenneth until I was an adult.
And as always, unless otherwise cited. all of images in this post were taken on my less than old logger crotchety iPhone.