It had all the makings of a disaster movie or at the very least a tetanus shot but it wasn’t until a few weeks had passed that the incident with the chainsaws occurred.
From the main road, running parallel to the driveway, was an access road to the ravine and the lower part of the property. Half way down the access road, two trees had fallen and blocked the way. Because of the angle of the bank above it and some large trees further into the ravine, the fallen trees formed a chest-high blockade.
My uncle tasked me with the start of what would later be dubbed “The Wall” in a tone of voice typically used by those suffering post traumatic street disorder. The theory behind The Wall was essentially to stop the house from sliding into the ravine. Having spent some time inside the house by this time, I wondered if letting it slide into the ravine would have been more efficient (and probably more fun).
But I was being paid to work, not think.
To get to the site of The Wall, I had to travel down the access road. Having to duck under the trees while pushing a wheelbarrow full of crushed rock down a relatively steep incline was not a task I enjoyed so I was much relieved when Uncle Ron hefted a chainsaw down the road to take care of the problem. The trees were going.
“This’ll get rid of those those damn trees,” he said. At least, that’s what I think he said. Uncle Ron has a mumbling way of talking. If you weren’t paying attention you might think he was just clearing his throat.
He yanked the the starter and the chainsaw buzzed to life. He brought the spinning chain upwards and started into the first tree. He pulled the saw out and resumed cutting from the top, sawdust billowing out in a cloud. Then the machine squealed horribly and died.
