Memories from the NorthEast (MftNE): Many things in my life I have chosen not to talk about. My counselor Susan (henceforth The Counselor) says it is time to share. Hence this series of blog-posts. Apologizes to all.
My mom's second husband was a bastard. I'm sorry I can't help it. When I was thirteen and my little brother twelve, he decides we should go cutting with him that summer. My little brother (like my own son) was one of those cute little boys who turned into a handsome young man. Mom crying and screamed and hysterical wouldn't let him go with our step-dad the day when headed into the mountains. As the oldest, she knew I could handle things. I was small for my age. We hadn't been in camp a week when he told me if I was cold at night I could crawl into his sleeping bag with him. Did I tell he was a bastard? Didn't happen! Never talked to my mom about it.
He dropped most of the trees and did the bucking once I finished limbing. I got good at handling a saw. Rarely left a stab. Most my cuts were flush with the bole. I can handle things; my saw never kicked back. Pinched occasionally and every so often a bound branch breaks loss and back hands ya. First time that happen I got knocked to the ground. Old man laughed. The bastard. It happens to newbies a lot until you get the feel for it. One day we are about out of saw gas. He says he is going to go get some more. Which means he's taking off early to go drink whiskey with the boys. Bastard. Or not. He leaves, it happens; branch snaps back and knocks me clear off the tree I am working on top of. I fall butt first onto to a log he'd just cut.
Falling is part of working in the woods. A stab jammed through the meaty part of my thigh is not. I don't leave stabs. Bastard. I wait to see if maybe he is coming back. He doesn't and it is probably a fifteen minute walk. Bastard. So, I pry myself off the stab, use my tee-shirt as a bandage and tighten down my chaps to stop the bleeding. I was half way back to camp when another crew of cutters stopped to give me a ride. They took care of me. This last part here. When people ask why mom finally got rid of the old bastard, that's the story she tells.