I love my wife. Last night after school my wife and I navigated our way to a town east of us to a sawmill, a very run down coming to its end sawmill. My idea of romance.
I had ordered oak for a Roubo styled bench that I plan to take to my wife's mother's summer home in Maine.
When we arrived at the sawmill entrance we turned onto a dirt path. I won't say road because it wasn't much more than a path. Lined on one side of the path were perhaps a 100 or so stumps, as if these huge trees had been yanked out of the ground stumps and all.
Passing through these monuments we came to an opening. This opening was a dirt field where no grass grew or could grow. Piles of wood scattered everywhere. Two band saw mills sat abandoned under collapsing sheds. In the middle of all this sat a building with smoke coming from an unseen chimney. This building looked like a barn or a shed, certainly not a house. I wasn't sure what it was, but there was smoke and where there is smoke there is fire and I hoped it wasn't on fire, it could have been. Perhaps the neighbors if any could see it would like it burned. Any way, we pulled up to this building because a truck was parked out front and there was a porch and a door.
Our truck seemed out of place in this world of confusion and deterioration. Kathy stayed in the truck, something about not wanting to be eaten by wild animals or something.
I walked to the porch, covered in rotting OBS, a cheap man made product never intended to be seen in house construction. The door had a note, call a number if no one answered. I rang the bell and knocked for good measure and waited.
Soon I heard a slight stirring and a little old lady, she reminded me of my grandmother, came to the door. With a big smile she introduced herself and I too.
Behind her I could only see a wall covered in old dirty caps, the kind given away at tractor stores or hardware stores. I collected many myself while living on a farm in Tenseness. Trophies I suppose.
Kathy now gets out, seeing that I was not eaten, and it seems safe.
Our new friend proceeds to show us the wood I had ordered. On the phone she said the log she used was seven feet long, not the six as I ordered. No worry, she'll only charge for six feet. It was closer to ten feet long.
Two ten inch by six inch by ten feet long pieces of oak. Would these be called beams? Not soaking wet but not dry. My back started to hurt.
The oak looked good, the pine not so much.
She said "I'll use my tractor and load it in your truck", say what!? Gramma drives a tractor? I think to my self, no. I return to the wood, try to lift one. My back groans.
Now she gets into her tractor. It is kind of like a bob cat. It has an enclosed cab and runs on tracks not wheels. She handles it like my mom might run a vacuum cleaner. It's second nature to her.
Off she heads to the wood picking up the two six by six pine beams first. The claws seem to barely have them as she backs around and heads toward my fairly new truck that I have never put anything in but luggage or my dog.
High in the air the beams rise and over the side of the truck they go, jiggling, trying to get loose while moving over the rough ground, as this little old lady maneuvers as expertly as I have ever see it done. But still....my truck!
I wait for them to drop but nothing happens, she carefully sets them down and then whips around to grab the oak beams. I have estimated the oak weighs in at over 400 lbs, she gets a better hold and lifts them high and aims for the truck. I am starting to get woozy, my breath stops. If she drops these, my truck will be destroyed, not just dented. She keeps going undeterred. (Its not her truck after all.)
Over the side of the truck again, this time though she has to release the claws and readjust the load before setting the beams down. She lets go and the beams start to fall, but she catches them at the last minute and sets them down as gently as possible. I hear a thump. Not a hard thump, a thump that says something extremely heavy has just come to rest in the bed of my nice, fairly new truck. My breathing starts again. She did it, my truck is unscratched. She gets out as if she just got off the couch and matter of fact begins talking. About what, I don't know, I am still trying to comprehend what just happened.
We talk more about wood and then we drive away. I don't secure the wood, why should I? I can't even lift it. How will I get it out? Or run it through a portable planer, (what was I thinking?)
Later today, we will traverse to Tennessee to deliver the wood to my son, or should I say my partner in insanity, to begin the Roubo build.
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