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Humour

Frank, the Preacher, and the Chainsaw from Hell

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Recently married, my faith was to be tested. I married the preacher’s daughter, so I had more on the line then most. The family shared a secluded piece of property relatively close to Thunder Bay. Along the very busy Trans-Canada Highway, one would never guess what lies down a gated gravel road. Approximately 7 kilometres uphill then a drop down to McKenzie River Valley. So far inland through the thick mixed forest of the Canadian Shield, that one cannot hear the highway whine. Instead the rumble of trains on the CNN railroad and the occasional wolf’s howl.

I have walked, hiked, skied and driven this little stretch of road. When animals, birds or a scene captures your eye, you simply stop and enjoy without worry of traffic. Moose, hawks, porcupine, bear, Blue herons, beaver, Kingfishers, martens to list a few of the animals sighted.

The camp, an old log cabin built in 1976 by Frank and sons, was a large sauna, with a common area. Equipped with wood cook stove and wood sauna stove. With time passing, marriages and children, meant a new larger cabin needed to be built.

This is where I come in. Land needed to be cleared and with a forest in front of us, this, I was told, was to be where the lumber to build would come from. I also had a nice new ¾ ton truck which was to be used to hull the logs to a local saw mill back towards town, owned by Frank’s cousin. I really enjoyed physical work, having worked in construction and mining. I had no problem with cutting the logs needed for a cabin.

At first, I had little experience with chain saws or cutting trees. I would learn quickly with hundreds of trees needing to be milled into lumber. Being new with chainsaws, I stood a little puzzled when Frank started up the Husqvarna for me the first time. I watched this big, heavy, chainsaw rotate clockwise faster than a second hand. A refurbished Husky from the bush camps, this saw had seen better days. There was no idle. No brake. And a freshly sharpened chain honed down by Frank, who worked in the bush camps before becoming a Lutheran preacher. I was a little apprehensive but the pressure was on. I looked at Frank then down at the chainsaw. Taking a leap of faith, I reached down and grasped the spinning beast. The chainsaw with all its flaws, preformed like a hot knife through butter. The land was cleared, the lumber dried out and the new cabin has held many family gatherings. Best of all, I still have my fingers.

 

Written by Barnwood 57(E.W. Rantala)

Humour

Indigestible

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The winter months of waiting were over. The package of fishing equipment had arrived at my friend’s house. It took many months, but as promised on the back of an “Incredible Hulk” comic book was the advertisement promising: 1001 Fishing Pack! Everything you needed to reel the big one in. Three rods, three reels, fishing line, hundreds of hooks, sinkers, lures, jig bodies and even jars of bait- minnows floating with frozen eyes in liquid. All for $9.99. Could there really be 1001 fishing items for that price? I didn’t believe the claims, after all along side of it was an ad for sea monkeys, dried in a package ready to be brought back to life! I was eager to see my friends face (let’s call him Ed). I was sure it was mostly junk and useless to true fishermen like us. To my dismay there was some good merchandise in the box, well worth the 10 bucks to a twelve and a thirteen year old. I’m still sure the dried sea monkeys were a scam.

Now that we had our fishing gear it was time to finish the plans for our trek across the two towns; Port Arthur and Fort William, then on to Chippewa Park. Our destination was about 10 kilometres outside of Fort William on the shores of Lake Superior. The bike ride alone would take all afternoon through the narrow streets in the hot June sun. A quick check: Bicycles – yes, sleeping bags – yes, the ten dollar package of fishing equipment – yes – and we were off! Some 30 kilometres from our houses to the park was a relatively short ride compared to a few others we had adventured on. It was only one night, no need to carry extra gear.

A quick swim in chilly Lake Superior to cool off upon arrival then it was time to put the gear together to go fishing. The park was quiet before the summer July rush, even the rides that accompanied the small zoo weren’t yet running until Canada Day. We walked along the sandy shoreline thick with reeds. A very good area for early large Northern Pike spawning and warming up from the frigid waters of Lake Superior. The water was crystal clear. The sandy beach littered with drift wood logs.

We had managed a few small fish each when I noticed Ed straining and grimacing trying to get off a snag. I yelled over, “Just get in the water and get it off the log. It’s not deep.” I could see the red and white dare devil lure moving away slowly. Ed was frantic. The log started to move slowly at first. For a few seconds I was puzzled. Then in the clear water I saw the large, wide eyes staring back at me from the reeds. A pike so big it looked like one of the many scattered dead wood logs along the grassy shoreline. “It’s huge, Ed! What are you going to do?!” I uttered.

The massive fish turned slowly, only slightly annoyed at Ed’s attempts to change its direction. Gaining speed the beast swam parallel to the shoreline. Ed started to trot, then jog. He was running out of line. The Pike stopped, turned, looked at Ed’s rod bent almost in a circle. It cracked the fiberglass rod under the strain. A quick S-shaped thrust of its tail, the fish stripped the gears of the rod. Then snapped the line in a long streaming run before disappearing into the depths of Lake Superior. Ed crashed backwards, his small young teenage body was no match for the biggest Northern Pike I had ever seen still to this day!

Ed was, of course, in shock. “How, why, what..?” barely able to speak he finally roared “Did you see the size of that fish?!”

“I did and it didn’t want any part of you.” I plopped down beside him. I calmed him down eventually, explaining that with his equipment plus the fact the fish looked like it weighed more than he did, catching such a prize would have been impossible.

I’m sure his dreams of “the one that got away” were interrupted by the crash of thunder and the downpour of rain. The huge thunderstorm soaked us each in our own sleeping bags while the middle of the campground became a wading pool. Two shivering and soaked boys braving the night without a tent, covered their heads and tried to sleep.

Drying our sleeping bags in the morning sun gave us time to fish before the trek home. I now know, after years of fishing, that big fish bite best before a thunderstorm. Ed did not ever see his monster fish again but he did bring in a nice 5 pound Northern Pike. It was the right size for eating and Ed was going to get his mother to cook it that very night. He was happy and eager; a fish and his tall tale to tell his family.

By the time we reached his house after another long bike ride, mainly uphill, on a hot June sunny day, the fish in his bicycle basket had dried up some. Ed insisted it could be salvaged. The whole family gathered around to watch Ed’s mother dissect the fish. She was from the old country and not afraid of a little blood and guts. “Let’s see what’s in the stomach,” I exclaimed pointing at the bulge.

Screaming and wailing, a hairy rodent protruded out of her first slice into the stomach. We ducked from her fillet knife as Ed’s mom flailed her arms around. Once the mayhem was over and Ed’s mother was sitting at the kitchen table safely no longer hyperventilating, an angry look came over her face. “Get it out of my kitchen!” She ordered him to get rid of the contents of the guts, muskrat and all! Poor Ed, his mother was in such a state, he had to throw out his prized catch too!

Written by Barnwood 57

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Robin Hood NOT

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Robin Hood not

Robin Hood (Not)

By

Barnwood

During my teen years I had a close friend, let’s call him Ed. From Grade 6 until the end of High School, we were inseparable. The first day I was invited to Ed’s house I was amazed. This guy had more games than a small store! You, well some of you, do remember the days of board games: Monopoly, Risk, chess, table hockey…

But first I have to tell you why two young boys were so free…Ed’s Dad worked hard in the bush. Back then the men didn’t come home every day, they stayed at the bush camp for months. His mother was a nanny for some rich people. His older brother who wrestled with us and played his guitar in his bedroom wasn’t always around. That left his grandpa, who didn’t speak a word of English. His room was the car port converted into a bedroom and he was deaf.

Ed had a brand new Hitachi stereo in the living room and we had endless days to play games! We would listen to the newest: Led Zeppelin, Carlos Santana, Uriah Heep and the Guess Who records. These brand new albums back in the early ‘70s were cranked up loud, very loud while we played all six colour pieces in Risk or all eight figures in Monopoly. A note book kept all the stats from every game we ever played. Ed was very competitive and would have gladly beaten me every game he could. In table hockey and table football the detailed stats told a story how the games unfolded. The vibrating table football had notes detailing players, plays and notes on the opponents. This was very serious fun. Ed was my nemesis. He was a little older, a little wiser and he had home field advantage all the time.

Where I could hold my own was the more athletic games like table hockey, tennis, target shooting (unlike chess, cards or board games). In Ed’s back yard a giant piece of plywood with a target was erected. Ed had a gun, ok, just a pellet gun. Hour after hour the target was pelted. It was fun but eventually it got boring even after we put the most villainous faces from Life Magazine. Along with the pellet gun, we had a couple of bows. This too provided a contest at first requiring more physical strength. But the smallish back yard with our increasing skill left us without challenge.

I’m not sure whose idea it was but I’ll take the credit. I’m sure all of you have seen epic fails on YouTube. If there had been internet back in the ‘70s and a kindly neighbour filming, it would have gone viral. Since target practice had become a little dull the idea was to go into the front yard, bow in hand and shot arrows at each other! The front yards were about 40 feet across, with no fencing between the houses. Ed went a couple of houses down to shot. At least 80 feet away. He had a nice new 45lb 60 inch Shakespeare Wonder wooden bow laminated with fiberglass and I had an old Super Jet 30lb 60 inch fiberglass bow. We had protection of course. What person in their right mind would shoot arrows at each other without an aluminum garbage can lid as your shield?!

This all went well at first. The freedom of youth to play, explore and lob arrows at each other! My bow being weaker delivered a smooth arched flight. If I could ask Ed one question I would like to know whose idea it was really after all. He had the stronger, faster bow. Ed knocked down my every attempt with ease. My buddy on the other hand, with the stronger bow, had a more direct path. On Ed’s third attempt, I missed. When I did not hear the clank on the garbage can lid I looked down to admire the arrow firmly planted into my upper thigh. I staggered around the front lawn for all the neighbours to witness. A little dizzy, I pulled out the target arrow that was embedded an inch into my muscle. Missing anything vital, a dime sized hole appeared. I don’t remember any pain, just anger. I lost to Ed again!

Humour, Uncategorized

New Skates

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Here in Canada, Hockey is what everyone likes to talk about: “When will the next Canadian team will win The Cup?” When I was young, very young, they only had 6 teams in the NHL. My father’s team was the Montreal Canadians. Mine was and still is, the Boston Bruins. Of course my favourite was Bobby Orr, the greatest Canadian Hockey Player ever! Growing up in this culture fueled my interest to play hockey but… I didn’t know how to skate.

I finally found the courage and money to buy skates. I was fifteen. I wanted to catch up to the skill level of those kids who were born with skates on. The decision was made and I bought my first (and only) goalie skates. I reasoned that goalies don’t have to know how to skate well. I should fit right in!

So excitedly, I started walking around the house with my new skates. I went outside to slide around the driveway, when I noticed a hard crust had formed on the snow. A melting freezing pattern had created an icy surface making it possible to skate all over the back yard. I spent hours circling, zigzagging, crisscrossing the yard. This lasted a few days before the ice gave way. No problem. I was full of confidence to head to one of the numerous outdoor rinks dotting the neighbourhood.

The first few times at the rink were during blizzard conditions, when no one could see my clumsiness. I had improved enough to go skating with my friend John and his little brother, Peter. Both played hockey; my friend a good defenceman. As more kids showed up we made two teams mixing up ages and abilities to be fair.

Going straight – not a problem. Turning. Stopping. That was a problem. Even the smallest kids were so much better than I. That was until I noticed. There was something different with everyone’s skates. Theirs were sharp. You mean I have to sharpen my skates before I use them?!

Does that explain why my ankles were flopping back and forth like an umbrella in a thunder storm? YES!!

By Barnwood

Humour

No Dogs or Cats

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After weeks of whining I was finally going to get my first pet. My parents had said, “No dogs or cats. You have to take care of it. ” What can I get and what can this ten year old boy look after? I wandered through the pet store with my money jingling in my pocket. My first thoughts were of fish; nah, kind of boring just swimming of circles. My focus was now on the turtles. Three small green painted turtles, a glass bowl, water and a few rocks and I had my first pets.

The first day was fun, letting them crawl around, taking great care of their wellbeing. The first chocked to death on a piece of food. Carefully cutting the meat into smaller pieces, I was sure the other two were in good hands!

To my horror, the next morning, the second turtle had drowned. The precisely placed rocks had given way, trapping my turtle underneath. Poor guy. I recovered quickly. All my attention now on the remaining turtle.

So let’s see. The first one chokes to death, the next one drowns and the third… the third turtle was so traumatized with the recent events, watching his dear friends perish… the last of my little green pets committed suicide.

Rearranging the rocks that had entrapped turtle two, (I hadn’t had time to name any of them yet), had made it easy for turtle three to climb out and jump over the side. Splat on the kitchen floor all I heard.

Within three days all three pets had perished. Maybe Mom and Dad will let me get a hamster? But that’s another story…

By Barnwood

Humour

Butt Cheeks

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I want to talk to you about butt cheeks, specifically, mine. My tale is this: I ask how much do you pay attention to butts? I have to be honest, I have looked at a lot of female behinds in my day, but have paid zero attention to my own behind.

This little tale is about my butt or rather the disappearance of my comfy cushion, let me sit anywhere in comfort, from the hardest wooden stool to, well, a rock. I never thought anything about this. You just sat down on your butt.

I was startled on fine day, after wiping my butt successfully, to find some of it had disappeared. I’m sure it was noticeable in the preceding weeks, but it was that specific wipe that had me shivering. I had lost a lot of weight in a few short months. No diet or secret. I simply gave up sugar and a few carbs. So voila! Now I look better, sort of. My pants don’t fill out anymore.

Now I constantly shift from one cheek to the next, trying to get comfortable. I’ve stopped looking for the softest seat in the house and started carrying this donut to sit on. It was either that or strap a pillow to my backside. I do get a lot of strange looks but the alternative would be to go back to sugar to fill out my sugar butt.

By Barnwood

Humour, Uncategorized

I Saved a Life Today

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I did save a life today in my dog’s water bowl. This was not just any life, oh, no! This little teeny brown wood frog was struggling; nostrils barely above the surface swimming the sidestroke… I thought I saw a smile when Timmy, yeah, I named him, Timmy was air lifted out.

Timmy was not even and inch long, but I found a new home where he lives today. A little pond in the front yard teaming with mosquito larva and a granite rock to sun on appears to have given Timmy a second chance.

Any questions can be related to Timmy by yours truly. You know like what colour are your eyes? or How many mosquitoes have you eaten today? or How did you end up almost drowning in a dog’s water dish bowl?
…Unless you want to talk to Harold, the garter snake, who lives under my steps.

Humour, Uncategorized

The Last Jump

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There just isn’t enough. I had shoveled every snowflake into my drop zone. I’d convinced myself, that a three foot diameter snow pile was enough for the jump. Not an ordinary jump by any means. This had taken planning, all the training and of course the practice jumps. The success from the previous months of jumping off the highest places around neighbourhood had excited my 10 year old mind.

I loved high places. There was a sort of freedom, a joy and pride in being able to do things others couldn’t… or wouldn’t.

One great pleasure was walking along, well, on top of fences. With my balance and love of heights, the neighbourhood was easy pickings for a clever, sneaky, crab apple thief. Carrots too! I was small enough that when the neighbours by coming home early, I could hide amongst the potatoes. I got away with it, escaping with two big juicy orange carrots! I wasn’t greedy. Just take what you need and not a carrot more! Also a good thief always covers up his tracks; careful to fill the holes back up with dirt so I could visit again unsuspected.

Crab apples were more difficult. You could get spotted. I mean way up on a fence is, well, obvious.
Darkness and stealth was the key to a big pocket full of delicious crab apples.

Oh, but I have to tell you about my jump. The one from the summer of ‘67- it was flawless! Absolutely brilliant! And except for the rash…no harm. It was a clever plan.

Basements were dug; a new subdivision would lead to new friends and for now, summer fun. Huge piles of dirt had come from newly constructed basements holes. We would scamper up past the loose sand at the bottom to the clay soil mix at the top of the mound. We ran across the top. Jump. Hit the looser sand that absorbed impact, at about half way down. Then gently slide the rest of the way to the bottom.

One night after a few hours of jumping off the huge, at least twelve foot, dirt piles, I separated from the other neighbourhood children to go exploring. New houses had sprung up. “No one will see me”, I thought. I had to go look. The houses under construction were shells on top of cement basements. No doors or windows and no stairs! You could, however, stand on the landing.

Making my way around to back of the house to where I could shimmy into the basement. Entering and exiting without stairs would be easy; faster than anyone could walk up and down stairs even if they had them.

Not much to see in this basement except bags and bags of- I knew what it was, just like my Dad had used when he built our new house – insulation!
A piece of sheet metal was sharp enough to open all those big soft bags of cushioning.

“Heck, after I’m done they ought to thank me for saving them some time, for opening the bags, I mean.” I announced out loud, convincing myself, I spread all that insulation at the bottom of the landing. “This will be the softest landing ever!”

It worked out fantastic! I lost count of my jumps – could have hit a dozen or more. Wasn’t even tired yet from all the climbing back out but my desire for one more time gave way to itchy skin.

The cloud of fiberglass dust filled the basement. Trying to clean the pink insulation that had penetrated my clothes only made my skin itch more. Scratching all the way home the discomfort gave way to a big grin…time to plan the next jump.

My last jump was memorable. It was epic; bigger, flashier. If only I had been born during the internet days, instead of the late ‘50’s I could have been on Youtube! A child growing up in the 60’s was a time of exploring, no computer, little TV, a time to play! We all loved the outdoors. One had to be sick to be stuck indoors even on rainy days.

The memory of the red sore eyes and itchiness had mostly disappeared by the time the first snowstorm of the year. While, it really was a little more than a dusting, but it left enough to build the target.

Simple plan really, climb the side of the house, ease your way onto the rood, walk across the roof to the edge and jump into the pile of snow. I looked across the yard. Would there be enough? I could have waited. I should have waited. If only it had snowed more. No, I couldn’t wait. I had to go for it!

The climb up would be simple; the trellis was attached to the back siding. I had to be careful not to make a lot of noise. ‘Who’s on the roof?’ they might wonder. The timing had to be perfect.

Having finished supper and the rest of the family enjoying an episode of “Bonanza”, gave me a window of opportunity. My parents watched as I scrapped the front lawn down to the roots. Did they ever wonder what I was up to? Nah, what parent doesn’t like seeing a kid shovel snow, even when it’s the lawn and not the driveway!

Being agile, I was right about the climb up being easy. I had walked around the perimeter of many roofs. Now, I figure, that Dad’s was a 6/12 pitch. Not as steep as some I climbed on. It was a challenge of balance. Not much different than the warped wooden fences I frequently traveled along.

Snow made the roof slick and crunchy. Not to worry; any noise I make will get covered by Hoss Cartwright’s six shooter. I went straight across. “Too slippery for walking along the edge tonight,” I decided.

When I got into position, I was surprised how small the target was from above. The cold winters’ night had no wind. Yet I was a little teeny, tiny bit nervous – as teeny, tiny as the pile of snow looked from up here. No. There was no going back now. I was not afraid of anything. But the jump had to be spot on.

The edge had a sheen of ice on the grey asphalt shingles. Balancing on the edge was tricky. “Cannot touch the gutter,” I thought. “I need to be as close as I can to get the maximum distance.”

I accelerated quickly upward at first. A swan dive, then ready for impact. On the way down – for a second – no a fraction of a second, I knew that the little slip I felt my left foot make, had thrown off my young, thin body off course.

Opening my eyes, after all the stars cleared up from my brain; I saw beside me my pile of snow. Untouched. My head was throbbing. Probable concussion…but nothing was broken! I got up after a few minutes; I didn’t want to freeze and be found dead on the lawn.

All I remember is staggering around the front yard for the longest time. No one asked what I was doing holding my head staggering around. My parents never did. Even though they saw me circling about. Guess they didn’t hear the thud. The neighbours never asked what I was doing. However, I did get a few strange looks after from the neighbours who lived across the street. Gratefully, I escaped with only a headache.

The big question is did I learn my lesson? Yes. Most definitely, yes, I learned a very valuable lesson that day:

Do not jump off a roof top unless
you have a lot of snow!

Written by Barnwood

http://www.soyouthinkthatsfunny.com