Timberrrrrrrrr.

Timberrrrrrrrr.
Paul Bunyan, I’m not.
I don’t swing an axe or handle a chain saw. I’m really good at picking up sticks, though.
Giant elm trees once stood outside the back door of my parents’ house — but no more. Dutch elm disease had taken their toll on the beautiful trees that had perfectly shaded the grassy yard and wide steps. The inviting hammock lost its dense canopy overhead and now the bright sun glared down on the once shadowed sidewalk.
Dad hired the Tree Guy to drop the faded green giants. The clean-up has been a family affair with each of us kids and grandkids taking their turn in the woodcutting business.
It was my turn last weekend.
Raised on a farm, I should be no stranger to physical labor. Like all farm kids, I worked hard — and played hard. However, after years parked at a desk on a chair with wheels, I’d forgotten the kind of hard work that can make you really sweat — especially when the mercury tops 90 degrees and the south wind barrels through at 40 mph.
With trepidation, I trusted my teenage sons to operate a small tractor and a pair of chainsaws. With Grandpa as official supervisor, we quickly discovered it was best if the boys worked in separate zones. It’s not that they couldn’t cooperate; it’s just they were more productive if unencumbered by a partner in close proximity.
With the machinery in the hands of the newly initiated, I was given my own tools to work with — a pair of leather gloves, a rake and a shovel. I was fine with that.
I’ve always considered myself a strong person. I’m no weakling, rest assured. I’m perfectly capable of lifting that branch and hauling it to the bucket on the tractor — provided the wind didn’t catch it and toss me for a loop.
The chainsaw crew started chopping the large tree into smaller chunks that could be carted away. They made short work of the mess. Cut and lug and haul, cut and lug and haul. We fell into a certain rhythm and quickly the tree started to disappear.
My arms started to ache and I recalled the tendonitis in my elbow — a golf injury, I had convinced myself. With each gust, the wind gave me a taste of dirt and sawdust. I’d forgotten to lift with my legs and I noticed a catch in my lower back. Gosh, I’m a wimp. I challenged myself to work through the pain. I won’t be defeated, I told myself.
I’d gotten into the swing of things when I tried my hand at foreman duties, signalling the tractor driver to pull up close to the pile and use the bucket to scoop up one large portion of the trunk.
The young driver couldn’t read my signals and couldn’t hear me over the engine. Then he lost track of the brake for a brief moment.
I yelled “Stop!” a half dozen times and I successfully avoided being scooped up off the ground or buried under the log.
Certain I had been saved by Paul Bunyan’s spirit, I have now resigned from the logging crew. I’ll stick with my rake.