To Be a Logger Page 13

  As soon as the rains slowed up, as if they might quit, Dad got Curt and Irv over to help him. He did the directing and they did the work. They jacked the old log house up and moved it back to its original foundations. They did a better job this time, guaranteed to keep the building where it belonged.

  Then they started the new job that Dad had not talked about. They poured cement for foundations for a new house, back farther up the hill on a level spot where nothing could be washed off. Mom was to have her new house at last.

  For the first few weeks after Dad’s return, neighbors and friends and relatives kept coming in to see Dad, to talk and visit. The men were idle now and so it was a great time for visiting.

  Uncle Curt and Uncle Irv and their families came often, and Aunt Alice and Uncle Bob came over from Rogue River with their children. The Kramers and the Duncans and the Watsons and the Carters dropped in, as well as others. Everybody wanted to be reassured that Big Joe Bartlett was a good as new again. They left, after each visit, without any doubts.

  But it was Eddie Wykoff’s visit that cheered Joel the most. It was Eddie who helped him to think things through and come to some important conclusions.

  Eddie talked to Dad for a while, and then he and Joel went back off up the hill into the woods. They walked, and talked as they went along. The forest was quieter now, with the approach of winter, as if it were getting ready for a long rest. Only a few squirrels and chipmunks were out. Because it was the hunting season, even the deer had made themselves scarce. Neither Eddie nor Joel carried guns.

  Joel did most of the talking and Eddie listened. Joel found it easy to talk to Eddie. Eddie looked upon Joel, not as a little kid, but as a boy of his own age. He made him feel like an equal.

  Logging and cutting down trees had been a part of Joel’s life for as long as he could remember. He had never questioned. He loved the woods and its plants and wildlife. He loved all the animals that made their homes there and were happy and contented there.

  At the same time, he loved man’s machines. As a little boy, he liked all the machines that ran by themselves, the beat-up old car that Dad drove to town, the tractor that plowed people’s fields, the truck that hauled things, especially the big logging truck that hauled the giant logs. It was Joel who wanted to drive a logging truck and Billy Weber who wanted to drive a cat. For the logging machines—the donkey, the shovel, and the beloved cat were the best of all.

  Now for the first time Joel began to realize things. He had never thought of it before, but now he could see it plainly. He realized that these two opposing forces could never meet, that Mother Nature was pulling in one way and man and his machines in another. Man and his machines were out to destroy nature.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that …” began Eddie.

  “Wait,” said Joel. “That’s not all.”

  He told how he had loved to watch a big tree fall, but now he knew that every tree that fell left an empty place behind it; that the place where it had once stood and lifted its branches and leaves to the rain and the sun was now just bleak emptiness. Now he could see that the thin soil in the cracks on the steep mountainsides, where the tree’s roots had clung to hidden rocks and deep moisture so tenaciously, was being washed off down into the canyon, and that the little seedling trees would never have anything there to take hold of. Now he could see the stripped mountainside as a scene of desolation. In the place where the great proud trees had once stood in their green and growing grandeur, all that was left was a desert of ugliness.

  “I hate the Forest Service!” cried Joel. “Every time I see a clear-cut, I wonder if they’ve gone crazy.”

  “No,” said Eddie. “They know what they are doing.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Joel, remembering Dad’s angry words that day in the woods. “They read it out of a book?”

  “Their methods are scientific,” Eddie explained. “Tree farming is a science.”

  “Why can’t they do more salvage logging and do it without wrecking all the little trees?” asked Joel. “Why can’t they leave the best trees to reseed themselves? The loggers say that seeds planted by nature grow better and faster than those dropped by a man from a helicopter—those that fall on ‘dry ground and never sprout for lack of moisture, or in tangles of thorns and briars where they get choked out.’”

  “But remember,” Eddie said, “‘some fall on good ground, too, and bring forth good fruit.’” Then he added, “Many Forest sales specify salvage logging. Some salvage units are being logged for the third time—to keep all dead wood and snags out, and this keeps insects out, too.”

  “I hate them for all their spraying,” said Joel. “They’re killing off the wildlife … Anything that eats a tree seed they call an enemy of the forest. They’re disturbing the balance of nature.”

  Eddie told him all he knew about the Forest Service practices.

  Then Joel said solemnly: “I’ve wanted to be a logger all my life, Eddie, but now I know I can’t ever be one. For a while I hated the woods, but now I can see it was only because I love it so much. I feel disloyal to my dad—it all means so much to him. But I know now I cannot spend my life sawing down big trees, destroying Mother Nature. I just can’t.”

  “Why not plant them then?” asked Eddie quietly.

  Joel stared at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can spend your life planting trees instead of sawing them down,” said Eddie.

  “Aw, be a little Johnny Appleseed, eh?” scoffed Joel, with a grin. “Is that what you mean?”

  “How old are you now, Joel?”

  “Twelve,” said Joel. “Thirteen come spring.”

  “You got to keep on at school and get a good education,” said Eddie. “That’s important if you join the Forest Service.”

  “Join the Forest Service?” shouted Joel. “Who’s gonna join that bunch of idiots? I told you I hate them. I hate their clear-cuts, their spraying, their crazy helicopter seeding and every other darn thing they do. Dad says they’re just a bunch of crazy college guys …”

  “That’s right,” said Eddie. “You’ll have to save up and go to college, same as I’m doin’. There’s lots of summer jobs you can get, peeling poles, picking cones and oh, yes, when you’re fifteen, you can be Fire Watch.”

  Joel did not speak.

  “You’ll make a good one,” said Eddie. “You know the woods so well, a hundred times better than I did when I started.”

  “I could be Fire Watch?” asked Joel, listening carefully.

  Good thing Eddie didn’t know about him getting lost that day in the big blow and how he got home that night.

  “Sure,” said Eddie. “I’ll tell the Forest Service. They’ll be glad to hear about you. You can learn a lot from them.”

  Eddie paused. “I’m not gonna be a logger, either,” he said slowly. “One log rollin’ over my foot is enough. I’m lucky I ain’t got a wooden leg. That one log made me change my mind quick. Have you heard the old saying: ‘Better a live coward than a dead hero?’ Well, I’m yellow and not ashamed of it. I’m plumb scared of logging and I’ll have no part in it.”

  Deserting Dad’s job was not quite so awful for Joel if Eddie was doing it, too.

  “What are you gonna do then, if you’re not gonna be a logger?” asked Joel.

  “Why, I’m joinin’ the Forest Service, of course!” said Eddie, with a laugh. “Gonna git me a purty green uniform and stroll around in the woods all day and tell them loggers what they can and can’t do. Or maybe I’ll ride in one of them helicopters all summer, sprinklin’ Douglas fir seeds over the countryside. Of course I got to study up some and go to college for a while. How about it, Joel? Ain’t that better than losin’ a leg or gettin’ bopped on my tin hat?”

  Joel agreed. He had to laugh.

  “Heck, Eddie, you got me turned clear upside down with your crazy ideas. I start out hatin’ the Forest Service and you get me wantin’ to join ’em. Maybe you’re right. If I’m not gonna be a logger
, I got to do something—go to college first, I suppose.” He thought for a minute. “But how’ll I ever tell Dad? He wants me to be a logger so bad, it’ll kill him for sure.”

  “I doubt it,” said Eddie. “Your dad’s weathered worse storms than this in his life. I think he can take it.”

  Eddie had to go.

  After he left, Joel called the dogs and went for a walk in the woods. He walked and walked and ran with the dogs until he was tired. How wonderful it was, all the trees and animals and growing things. He would not have to leave it, after all. The forest was in his blood. He felt at home in the woods again.

  As Eddie predicted, talking to Dad wasn’t so hard, after all.

  “Well, Dad,” said Joel, “I’ve made my choice. I guess I don’t want any cork boots, after all.”

  Dad looked up suspiciously.

  “You been wantin’ ’em for a long time, son,” said Dad, “ever since you was knee-high to a grasshopper.”

  Dad and Joel had a good talk and came to the same conclusion. Dad swore at the Forest Service and called their men idiots and nitwits and college boys and other things.

  “It’s time they got a good sensible kid like you in there, to help run things,” said Dad. “You know more about the woods and trees and wildlife than all the rest of them put together. If they’d get loggers’ sons in there, maybe they could bring back the beautiful forests to the state of Oregon. Maybe they could replant all those trees that Granddad and his generation cut down!”

  Joel told Dad about his talk with Eddie, and how Eddie had helped him to decide not to be a logger, after all.

  “I expect you’re right, son,” said Dad. “Ever since you were born, I’ve wanted you to be a logger, and you seemed to take to it like a duck to water. A father wants his son to be like him, only better. Then somehow, down there in the hospital, things began to look different to me. All I could see ahead was the end of logging as it’s been done in the past. There won’t be much in it for you, time you’re grown.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of, Dad,” said Joel.

  “The logging of the past is on its way out,” Dad went on. “Good timber’s getting harder and harder to find. Even in the National Forests, there’s not much left they want cut out. There won’t be many trees left to cut, time you’re a man. If you’re lookin’ ahead for your whole lifetime, loggin’s not a livelihood to choose.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, Dad,” said Joel.

  “That’s O.K.,” said Dad. “It’s been a good life and I’ve loved it. I’ve never wanted to do anything else and I still don’t. When I was young, all the forest was there, an inexhaustible supply, waiting to be cut down. That’s not true anymore. Guess the lumber companies were too greedy. Now the supply’s nearly gone and we need young fellers like you to replant and bring the forests back to Oregon.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Dad,” said Joel.

  “Your mom will be pleased,” said Dad. “She never liked logging.”

  “Yes, she’ll be happy now,” said Joel.

  “But me, I’m still a logger,” said Dad. “I can’t wait to get back to the woods. That timber of Granddad’s is still waiting for me. I like to think about it—the trees are still there! We’ve saved ’em. Granddad’s trees! Maybe I won’t cut ’em after all!”

  “The trees are still there!” said Joel.

  DEFINITIONS

  A-frame—simple log frame in shape of letter A, to which cables and pulley are attached for lifting small logs.

  Binders—fastenings used to tighten the chains that hold the logs in place on the logging truck.

  Bucker—logger who saws (or bucks) a log into shorter lengths.

  Calk Shoes (or boots)—heavy loggers’ boots, usually twelve inches high, with spikes in soles, for walking in woods on steep and slippery ground.

  Cat—any tractor of track-laying or caterpillar type, used to pull logs to the landing; also clears off and makes logging roads.

  Cat-skinner—logger who operates a track-laying tractor.

  Chaser—man who unhooks chokers at spar-pole.

  Choker—length of heavy cable on one end of which is a “bell,” on the other end a nubbin, which hook together around a log to move it.

  Choker-setter—logger who fastens a choker around a fallen log, so it can be yarded or dragged.

  Copenhagen—a form of chewing tobacco popular with loggers.

  Crummy—small car or bus, often yellow, owned by lumber company, used to transport loggers to woods.

  Donkey—a diesel engine which controls the cables which bring the logs to the landing.

  Donkey-puncher or donkey-engineer—logger who operates the donkey.

  Faller—logger who saws trees down with power chain saw.

  Fall a tree—current usage in Oregon for to fell a tree. Fall is used as a transitive verb.

  Gyppo loggers—contract logger or small independent operator. The word does not denote “gypping.”

  High climber—logger who climbs and tops the highest trees, which are used for spar-poles, and hangs rigging in them for the setting.

  High lead—logging which uses lifting power of high rigging to get logs up and over obstructions on the way from woods to landing.

  Hooker or hook-tender—the boss of the rigging, or yarding crew in high lead logging.

  Homelite—trade name of a particular chain saw.

  Landing—place where logs are assembled for loading.

  Powder monkey—logger who handles dynamite and blasts rock for roads.

  Shovel—diesel and gas shovel for loading logs onto logging trucks.

  Shovel-operator—logger who operates the shovel.

  The show—a logging outfit.

  Skid road—log road over which logs were skidded out of the woods in early days.

  Snag—standing dead tree in forest.

  Spar-pole—tall tree left in place, topped and stripped of branches, to which all rigging is (cables are) attached.

  Spud—tool used to scrape or peel bark off cut logs or posts.

  Stagged pants—loggers’ pants cut off above calk boot tops and fringed, so they will not catch on anything.

  Swede—a three-foot extension handle used on the binders.

  Tin hat—hard hat worn by loggers for protection. Made of aluminum, plastic, or laminated paper—anything but tin.

  Tin pants—heavy, water repellant duck pants worn by loggers in rainy weather.

  Widow-maker—branch from a dead tree which may fall on a man’s head and make his wife a widow.

  Winch—a drum at the back of a cat on which the cable is wound.

  Yamaha—trade name of special motorcycle.

  Yarding—moving logs to a central spot.

  A Biography of Lois Lenski

  Lois Lenski was born in Springfield, Ohio, on October 14, 1893. The fourth of five children of a Lutheran minister and a schoolteacher, she was raised in the rural town of Anna, Ohio, west of Springfield, where her father was the pastor. Many of the children’s books she wrote and illustrated take place in small, closely knit communities all over the country that are similar to Lenski’s hometown.

  After graduating from high school in 1911, Lenski moved with her family to Columbus, where her father joined the faculty at Capital University. Because Capital did not yet allow women to enroll, she attended college at Ohio State University. Lenski took courses in education, planning to become a teacher like her mother, but also studied art, and was especially interested in drawing. In 1915, with a bachelor’s degree and a teaching certificate, she decided to pursue a career in art, and moved to New York City to take classes at the Art Students League of New York.

  In an illustration class at the League, Lenski met a muralist named Arthur Covey. She assisted him in painting several murals, and also supported herself by taking on parttime jobs drawing fashion advertisements and lettering greeting cards. In October 1920, she left New York to continue her studies in Italy and London, where the publisher John L
ane hired her to illustrate children’s books. When she returned to New York in 1921, she married Covey and became stepmother to his two children, Margaret and Laird.

  Early in her career, Lenski dedicated herself to book illustration. When a publisher suggested that she try writing her own stories, she drew upon the happy memories of her childhood. Her first authored book, Skipping Village (1927), is set in a town that closely resembles Anna at the start of the twentieth century. A Little Girl of 1900 (1928) soon followed, also clearly based on Lenski’s early life in rural Ohio.

  In 1929, Lenski’s son, Stephen, was born, and the family moved to a farmhouse called Greenacres in Harwinton, Connecticut, which they would call home for the next three decades. Lenski continued to illustrate other authors’ books, including the original version of The Little Engine That Could (1930) by Watty Piper, and the popular Betsy-Tacy series (1940–55) by Maud Hart Lovelace. Lenski also wrote the Mr. Small series (1934–62), ten books based on Stephen’s antics as a toddler.

  The house at Greenacres had been built in 1790 and it became another source of inspiration, as Lenski liked to imagine the everyday lives of the people who had previously lived in her home. In Phebe Fairchild, Her Book (1936), for instance, a young girl is sent to live with her father’s family on their farm in northwestern Connecticut in 1830‚ when Greenacres would have been forty years old. For its rich and detailed depiction of family life in rural New England, the book was awarded the Newbery Honor.

  Other historical novels followed—including A-Going to the Westward (1937), set in central Ohio; Bound Girl of Cobble Hill (1938); Ocean-Born Mary (1939); Blueberry Corners (1940); and Puritan Adventure (1944)—all set in New England; and Indian Captive (1941), a carefully researched retelling of the true story of Mary Jemison, a Pennsylvania girl captured by a raiding Native American tribe, for which Lenski won a second Newbery Honor.

  By 1941, Lenski’s stepdaughter, Margaret, had married and started her own family, and Margaret’s son, David, spent a great deal of time with his grandparents at the farm. Lenski’s Davy series of seven picture books (1941–61) was largely based on David’s visits to Connecticut as a child.