The Timber Cutter

January 15 

The rain has fallen for two straight days. I had a date with the loggers over the mountain this week, but they have had it just as bad or worse than us. Rained Friday and all weekend as well up there. They are an aggressive outfit, so not working for them must mean a deluge.

The yard at the shop is holding so much water that pieces of bark are sailing from one end of the mill to the next. All this water makes me wonder if my basement is flooding at the house. I rub wax on a customer’s table top and then spend the day running second-grade hurleys on the lathe.

When I call, my timber cutter he is cranky. On the phone I can hear his television. I can hear small children playing in the background. He grumbles and answers my question saying yes, they will be there next week if this rain ever lets up. Then he hangs up the phone.

He has missed too many days from the rain and this month will be tight.

His name is Jim. He wears a blond mustache and though short, is built like a weightlifter. He either wears his logging helmet or a ball cap. On the rare occasion that I see him quickly switch between the two, I am always taken aback by a large bald spot on top of his head, which sharlpy contrasts with the long blond hair on the sides and back of his head.

He speaks with a rhotacistic “r” like Elmer Fudd, but with an Tennessee hill accent. You would never kid him about it—he would kick your ass. I would like to add that I won’t try to imitate his diction in my writing as I will with other people I introduce—I have far too much respect for him, even if we don’t always get along.

He is the best cutter I have ever seen. He is death to the forest.

One clear blue day we both stood on the side of a steep hill, high above a hollow below, watching the dozer skid off some thick poplars that Jim had just dropped and bucked. I had been observing his skill at dropping trees, his thoroughness on the clear-cut—not leaving even the smallest tree, watching him speed down the steep hill to buck the tops, then haul his saw back up the steep hillside to where I was, his feet sure on the loose soil.

I said to him, you love cutting timber, don’t you. What do you mean, he asked. I mean, hauling your saw around the side of the mountain, dropping trees, being good at what you do. Jim shook his head, grinned and said, you know I don’t ever come up here and think, I love cutting timber. His smile turned to a sneer as he said, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be. He turned abruptly and went on with his work.