Raincoast Chronicles 13: Stories & History of the British Columbia Coast

Herausgeber: White, Howard

• Broschiertes Buch

Produktbeschreibung

Cortes Island, Chilcotin War, basketmaking, "How I Got the Dump Job" and much more.

Produktdetails

• Raincoast Chronicles Nr.13
• Verlag: Amazon Digital Services LLC - Kdp
• Seitenzahl: 80
• Erscheinungstermin: Januar 1991
• Englisch
• Abmessung: 277mm x 213mm x 8mm
• Gewicht: 249g
• ISBN-13: 9781550170528
• ISBN-10: 155017052X
• Artikelnr.: 21104077

Inhaltsangabe

by JOHN SHREIBER For Jack Fraser - wherever he may be ON AN OVERTIME SATURDAY MORNING with the air gentle from an early autumn rain
two old loggers saw each other across the length of the landing. They had not seen each other for a long time and there were reconnections to make and news to share. The crews had begun their coffee and smokes
but the two old loggers
with no obvious advance gestures of intention
turned instead and began the slow
shambling walk
caulks crunching
to the centre of the landing where the newly moved yarder and the just-raised spar tree stood. The Finn
short
stocky
solid
reached the centre point first and
thumbs hooked under his Police suspenders
waited in the shadow of the spar. The other man
older
stiffer
body shrunken inside his shapeless denim work pants
joined him and in tandem now
the two carefully eased reluctant leg joints into squatting positions on the fresh gravel and sharp-edged yellow cedar chips. Each man
one knee lower
elbows firmly planted
hands dangling
faces the other. Above
the spar tree towers
dark against the sky. The one logger
having stuck his work gloves in rear pocket
clears with thumb the morning's snoosewad from his lip and few lower teeth
turning aside to spit out the last black remnants. The other
the Finn
clears his throat in commiseration and reaches under his grey Stanfields top into the breast pocket of his shirt for his sack of makings. He begins the deft business of extracting the flimsy paper from its orange package and placing it on his palm with one hand
and reaching in
laying out
and arranging the thick pinch of Player's Fine Cut with the fingers of the other. Passing the makings to the waiting older man
he rolls the works of his own with fingers of both hands into the perfect cylinder and finishes off with a concluding swipe of the tongue to seal his effort. While the second old logger repeats the exercise with the same thick-fingered dexterity and sequence
the first
the Finn
sticks his handiwork into one corner of his lips and again reaches under his Stanfields
feeling the other breast pocket for matches. Producing one from a crushed box
he strikes it with sudden violence on the fly zipper of his work jeans
then swiftly moves the burst of sulphurous flame to the patient cigarette-end of his partner. The old man curls his hands over the cupped hands of the Finn against a possible breeze
sucks in the first igniting inhalation
then adjusts his hands slightly to help the other culminate his part of the ritual. For a second there is no motion between the two old loggers hunkered on the gravel but for pulled flame in folded hands. Task accomplished
the Finn
with a twitch of the fingers
flicks his match through damp air in an arc of fine blue smoke to the ground. Both men pause
then pull a
long hard drag and hold it briefly while chips
gravel
yarder and spar tree shift abruptly to one side
stop and hold
for one bright
suspended
ineffable moment
then return in equilibrium. The two old loggers exhale gratefully
slowly
squinty-eyed in clouds of smoke. The one
passing his glance
so as to meet
briefly
his partner's eyes
and following through to rest his gaze on a point somewhere beyond the other's shoulder
begins a second slow drag. Head shrouded in fresh white smoke
eyes slitted
the partner returns the look
longer this time
drawing the pupils back to him. "Yessir
" he says.
The first logger
eyes now cast on the ground
nods. The two men squatting at the foot of the spar tree finish their smokes in silence. A breeze
having stayed itself in seeming patience
now stirs
and the passline
a light strawline
flaps absently a little
rhythmic against the massive trunk of the spar. At the top of the tree
one hundred feet above the ground
above the newly hung and strung bull block and haulback block
guylines reach
taut as knife edges
out to the four directions. One of the resting crews
looking up and seeing the two oldtimers under the spar tree says
"Look at them two old fuckers! Would you believe
back in the thirties
they were two of the fastest high riggers on the en-tire coast?" The others
jaws slowly working
shake their heads in doubt
wondering at the sheer inconceivability of the idea. Dragging busily on their tailor-mades
they resume
like crows
their coffee-break chatter.