With his axe lifted up, behind his head, his look gave off a sense of concentration. From his wrinkled brow to his gritted teeth, this man meant business. His victim lay on the ground, helpless. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Suddenly, he lifted his weapon swiftly, hammering it to the ground with a loud, THWACK. Split in half after one blow. No harm was done, for it was already dead before the axe hit it. He only collects the dead, as the Grim Reaper, collecting the souls of those who will tread the earth no more. Bending over, he picked up his prey and threw it into the back of his wagon. It was rusted over from the blood of those who had previously taken a ride to the other side. After loading this final body, he scoped out his next target for when he would return.
He stood the size of an average man, 5’10″, but his build made up for it. His legs were that of tree trunks, thick and full of vigor, not ready to be brought down easily. They were what this man trusted to keep him up. They would not, could not fail him. His stomach laid flat say for the six mounts of muscle, ready to bend and serve him for every need required. They showed just how dedicated he was to his work, for they are not acquired by the faint of heart. His chest screamed that of a mighty jungle man. That was essentially what he was. His whole world revolved around the fruits of Mother Nature. She was the one who appointed him from the beginning. His arms were most impressive, however. They were alive with power, pierced with thick, pulsating veins. In them, he trusted most to complete his tasks. The constant raising and lowering of his weapon required such power. Finally came his head. It was a mess of hair aside from the top: bushy brown beard, shaggy eyebrows, mustache, and sideburns. That made up for his hairless crown. His teeth had all been knocked out from the previous years of service, so that left him toothless. He was, nonetheless, something to fear.
That’s my dad. No, he’s not exactly a grim reaper. Neither is he a murderer. He’s a lumberjack and his clients call him Chopsaw. He spends the greater half of his days in the woods that cover our 60some acres of land. In a way, he collects the dead, for those are the only kind of trees he cuts down. It’s a tedious job, sawing down trees then chopping them into stackable pieces. With all this wood, he needs something to carry it all, but it’s not a wagon.
His first vehicle he used for this job was a bright orange 55 Chevy. It was his first truck he had ever owned as well. He had bought it used and drove it on the road for five years before he took it into the woods with him. It was a sturdy companion, lasting him about 15 years. He would have used it longer had parts for it been easier to attain. The reason for this was that it was considered a collector at this time. It still sits in our yard as a token from his past. The next truck he used became yet another Chevy. This time, it was white and a 66 model. It had a flatbed with sideboards, making there more room to hold a bigger load. Being only 2 wheel drive, this made it extremely difficult to drive in the winter. Its true end came when a tree fell on it, smashing it. Following those came similar trucks with similar stories. His current truck has been his favorite (and mine as well) by far, though. It is a lime green automatic old mudding and derby truck. It truly is a beast and perfect for driving in all sorts of weather and brush.
He is pushing it in age on top of everything else, being 68, but there never seems to be an ending supply of dead trees or people looking for firewood. He needs the exercise, too, since he has type 1 diabetes, needing a way that he can work off his blood sugar. Performing this tiresome job for some 30 years, he has had many close-calls with death. He has wild stories he shares from his adventures in the woods, such as the proceeding one.
Deep in the shadows of the woods on a hot summer day, Chopsaw prepared to take down a particular tricky tree. It stood high above the earth, its branches stretching to the sky, but also entwined with its neighbor’s. That was the problem. Because of this, he couldn’t very well guess exactly which way it would fall. He would have to cut it at a large enough angel to force it to fall backwards. He revved up his Husqvarna chainsaw and had at it. Slowly, he let the teeth of the saw chew away at the trunk. He paused after every few inches, glancing up to see whether it had changed position. Once his saw had munched halfway through the tree, it began to fall. First, in the direction he wanted it to, away from him and his truck. Then, because of how it had been entangled, it suddenly was pulled back and fell viciously upon my father’s truck. The roof caved under the impact and the windshield shattered. On top of that, as my dad tried to run out of its way, he was struck hard on the top of the head by one of the branches; knocked unconscious, light’s out. When he came to, he had no idea of how much time had passed. All he knew was that he had one heck of a headache. He proceeded to get right back up, cut the tree into logs, and then slice them into neat, stackable, pieces. He mustn’t have been out for long since I don’t remember having to go looking for him. Luckily, he was still able to drive the truck home, but with the shape the windshield was in, he had to find a new one.
Another incident took place after he cut a tree down. It was now on the ground and he was taking his chainsaw to slice the tree into cylindrical parts, each about a foot long. As he was cutting towards the top of the tree, he noticed some strange brown goop along his saw. Down by his feet, a bull snake, about 5 feet long, was slithering wildly. What had happened was that the snake must’ve been lower in the tree before my father cut it. As the cutting began, it seemed to try to escape by climbing up the inside of the tree. When the tree hit the ground, it must’ve been jarred by the fall since it didn’t get much further. After the blade cut the snake, it put the last of its energy in trying to escape with its body severed. Being terrified of snakes, my dad ran as fast as he could from the incident, keeping his eye on the spot where the snake was, just in case it came back to life.
While cutting towards the bottom of the tree during the fall, he had yet another surprise in store. He was simply waiting for it to fall over as he continued with his chainsaw through the tree. Once the tree began to fall, a large raccoon suddenly climbed out of a hole higher up the tree, frantically trying to reach the top. When it got there, all the while the tree continued to fall, it leapt through the air, trying to fly away, terrified. Landing on the ground, it sped off, putting as much distance between my dad and itself as it could. Fortunately, it was up high and scared enough to not want to come after my dad. If it had, my dad would have simply gained a new fur hat.
This next tale dates back to before I was born. It took place while he was sawing down a tree on what used to be our neighbors farm. As the blade was running, it suddenly started to sound as if it were getting stuck on something. He took the saw out and didn’t see anything wrong with it, so he kept going. Each time he tried using the saw again, it continued to hit something, possibly a knot in the tree. At this point, he decided to saw around whatever was hitting the saw. Finally, the tree came down. He went up to the trunk of the tree and found an old gear that looked to be from an old farm machine. How on earth could something like that end up inside of a tree, though? At this point, Chopsaw decided to head over to the home of the people who used to own the land and ask them if they knew anything about it. They did. They told him that about a hundred or so years ago, they’re great-grandfather used to farm the land. One day, one of the gears on his cultivators cracked, so he took it off and placed it around a tree that was just a sapling at the time. It must have been left there for it had now grown with the tree! If only that would happen more often, but with more valuable things.
As kids, we always found our dad’s job super cool and we always wanted to help. Each day, after school, we’d beg him to let us come along with him to help in whatever way possible. The only job he let us do was load the wood into the back of his truck. We’d always try to race him by stacking all the wood he split onto his truck before he could split more. Thinking back to it, I don’t believe we ever could beat him. Another reason we’d go out there with him was that he’d let us sit on his lap and steer his truck. That was something I was very proud of and bragged a lot about at school. Of course, us kids got older and started asking for money each time we’d go out there with him. He’d give us five dollars each, which was good enough for us. Once we each passed the age of thirteen, it just wasn’t our thing anymore. Computers and cartoons were what our minds were on. He didn’t mind that, though. He needed some time away from all of us and that was where he escaped to.
The more I think about it, it does indeed seem as if he were appointed by a higher power to deliver the dead of the forests to a new stage in their journey where they would still be assisting in the care of this world; keeping others warm, cooking meals. He’s still alive, isn’t he? There is more work for him yet to be done. I guess you could say he’s the Paul Bunyan of our land. Always has been, always will be.
