The Call

My friend's phone rang at 1:30 am Saturday morning.

It was the call. Any of you that have children old enough to drive know about the call. It is the ring of the telephone in the middle of the night. An awful alarm that snaps you awake from a light, uneasy sleep, because you haven't yet heard a car pull up, a door open, a sleepy fumbling in the bedroom down the hall as a son or daughter prepares to get safely into bed.

Before the receiver is picked up, there are muttered prayers. Prayers that the voice you are about to hear will be a familiar one. Words that will hold no finality, but will only be an inconvenience: "mom, I have a flat tire" or "dad, we were having so much fun that the time just got away from me." Excuses that might lead to angry words--but only after that sweet, secret feeling of relief. Everything is OK.

For Lisa and Lance, this was not that call. The words on the other end of the line were stark, flat, business-like: "Ms. Martin, you and your husband should come to the emergency room immediately. There has been an accident."

The drive to town was hurried and anxious. To make matters worse, their trip was delayed when they had to drive around an accident--two cars mangled and fused from a head-on collision, a Satanic sculpture of twisted metal and shattered glass. One of the cars had been damaged so severely that the emergency crews had cut away a large section in order to remove the driver.

They didn't make the connection. Perhaps it was their worry and haste to get to the hospital to check on their child, or perhaps it was the severity of the damage to the vehicle.

They did not recognize their first-born son's car.

The awful realization came at the hospital moments later. The words must have hit them with a force similar to the car that had crossed the center line and slammed head-on into their son's car.

Twenty-four year old J.R. wasn't coming home again.

I went to the memorial service with a sense of dread. There is nothing to say that is adequate in such a situation, so I usually say nothing. Perhaps an embrace with a simple "I'm sorry." Although I've only known Lisa and Lance for a short time, I knew from our conversations that they were people of faith, but even people of faith can be devastated by the loss of a son or daughter. A train that is derailed is not easily set back on the tracks, even by the largest of machines. That kind of destruction leaves scars that take time to heal, and it is not pleasant to arrive just after the derailment.

I was surprised by what I experienced. A video in the lobby comprised of pictures of a young man's short journey through life: J.R. as a baby, in family portraits, in school pictures, hamming it up for the camera. Always smiling, as if every occasion was just another moment of happiness to be savored, every day an ice cream cone waiting to be licked. There were some tears by onlookers, but many more smiles.

My surprise turned to amazement. My friend delivered her own son's eulogy. It was a wonderful tribute to a much-loved son. We were encouraged to remember J.R.'s happiness, as well as his ambition of becoming a counselor so that he might help others find their happiness. We were cautioned not to lay blame, but to instead pray for the young lady whose life will forever be changed for her part in the accident.

Simple, eloquent words from someone who was clearly hurt very deeply.

People often say that the test of faith is how a person lives their life. I would agree that a walk ought to match the talk. Too often it doesn't.

But perhaps a better test of faith is how a person handles a death, when words are just no good and the hope displayed by actions say all there is to say.

I believe I just witnessed the real deal.

Home Folks

It is 5:30 pm on a Thursday afternoon, but the gravel parking lot is almost full of dusty pickup trucks and mostly American-made cars. I am reminded that country folks eat supper early on weeknights in North Alabama, and tonight will be no exception. The large cement block building with the gravel parking lot is a Catfish Restaurant, no different than those that can be found near almost any town across the Alabama countryside. On this occasion, I am in the northwest corner of the state, a half-mile from the Tennessee River. Here she flows through lush green fields and hardwoods, and if there is a more beautiful waterway in the world, I have yet to lay eyes on it.

I struggle through the front door, loaded-down with my projector, laptop computer, and a portable screen that I will need to give my forestry presentation to a group of local landowners. I am met just inside the door by a middle-aged waitress, already flustered from the supper crowd. "You must be with the forestry folks. Y'all gonna be in that room in the back. Just head on in there, and let me know if you need anything. You want me to bring you a glass of sweet tea?" It has been a long drive up from Montgomery, and I am happy to accept the offer.

The small group that will comprise my audience begins to straggle in around 6. They come mostly in pairs, husbands and wives, and as they register I realize that the average age is probably 70. I won't be leaving anytime soon--older folks are always more personable. They will not allow me to leave a stranger. Before they accept what I will say in my presentation, they will have to get to know me--find out if I'm one of them, or only some pretender sent up from south Alabama to sell them a bill of goods.

I meet the Bailey twins and their wives. Both in the 70's and both retired accountants, I am unable to tell them apart if not for their name tags. They will be my questioners of the group. With years of experience in owning forestland, there is not too much that they haven't seen or experienced. Each will corner me and ask my opinion on a variety of topics (when will timber prices rise?), and both will require that I have the data to back up my answers.

Mr. Johnson simply wants to know where I'm from. I can tell it is key in his evaluation of my credentials. He's met people from my home town. He quizzes me about each one, and I feel that I am being cross-examined; the expert witness whose credentials are being evaluated on the witness stand. I do poorly. I left my hometown at 18 and have never been back except to visit. Many of the names and faces from my childhood are no longer recalled. I think I have failed, but will be surprised later when he calls me over to his pickup in the parking lot to present me one of his hand-made hiking staffs.

Others come by and shake my hand. I meet and talk with each one of the 17 people who eventually gather for my presentation. We talk about a variety of topics but never get far away from the land: the tornadoes of April that tracked north and south of their area, rainfall, tomato gardens, and the implications of the recently concluded legislative session in Montgomery.

We are eventually seated and the waitresses take our orders. We can order almost anything as long as it's fried: catfish, shrimp, chicken, pork chops, hush puppies, and french fries. It makes little difference--it's all good. We say a blessing and enjoy the meal.

Afterwards, I give my talk. I tell them of the potential legal liabilities of owning land, and things they can do to minimize their risk. They stop me at various points and ask intelligent questions. One dear lady who must be close to eighty-years-old takes notes, carefully writing down my words in a spiral notebook with all the seriousness of a student preparing for a final exam.

I finish right on time as promised at 8 pm. I face a long drive back south, but I already know I am not going anywhere anytime soon. There is more small-talk to be made, more questions. What of my family? Will I be coming back to speak again? How did I like the food? What church do I attend?

I am back on the road an hour later, happy and honored that I have been able to make the trip.

I have never been to this place before, but I believe I have been among the home folks.

A Dog's Life

We had another dog incident this weekend.

If you are wondering the specific meaning of the word "incident," let me explain. The word as I use it in combination with the word "dog" denotes an emergency trip to the local vet, along with the subsequent exchange of a tidy sum of money.

We've had a number of these incidents before. I don't want to brag, but let's just say that our vet sends me a Christmas card every year. I suspect that I am the major contributor to his grand-children's college fund.

This weekend's installment in the continuing saga involved Kota, our big male Boxer, and my Kawasaki Mule ATV. If you want to score the game at home, that's Mule 3, Boxers 0.

Let me explain the game. I have a big, fenced back yard, big enough for dogs to roam free and do all the things dogs like to do. They can run, play, chase squirrels--do whatever their little dog hearts desire. Are they content with this arrangement? No.

Every day (and by this I mean EVERY day) they patiently wait for me to come out back and crank up the ATV for a few laps around the yard. The game is this: I am the leader of the pack, and they are the wolves. Together, we three circle the yard at high speed, on the hunt for wildebeests or gazelles or maybe even grizzly bears. After about ten minutes, we rest and drink out of the garden hose. We never kill anything on these hunts, but it is, after all, the pursuit that matters--the comradeship of the pack.

This game has not been without casualties.

First, there was Butch, the greatest dog who ever lived. Butch was fearless and never showed pain, and like the dog in Faulkner's great story "The Bear," he was the dog I'd pick if I needed one to pull down and hold a dangerous animal. One day he unexpectedly darted in front of me after a squirrel. I hit him hard enough with the front bumper to knock him head over nubby tail, probably some thirty feet. Being a dog of unusual toughness and dignity, he never even yelped. He was unhurt--but he never ran too close to me again.

Then there was Dolly, the Redhead's little female. I ran completely over her when she was about six months old. She rolled over on her back and kicked like she was in the grip of Death himself, then jumped up and continued the game. But like Butch, she never ran too close to the ATV again.

Then there was Max. He didn't understand the game at first. He thought he was supposed to catch the ATV. The Redhead ran over his foot and crushed it (that one was expensive). He ran with a limp from then on, but still loved the game--he just never got too close to the ATV again.

Which brings us to Kota.

Kota is an adopted Boxer, the product of a divorce. He was eight months old when he arrived, so it took him a while to understand the game. He showed little interest in it at first, but soon became an expert with the encouragement of Dolly.

A few weeks ago, something happened. Kota became obsessed with the game. By obsessed I mean sitting out on our back deck by the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of me headed for the back door. By obsessed, I mean sitting by the backyard gate, waiting for me to get into or out of my truck. By obsessed, I mean issuing forth some sort of blood-curdling, squealing, whine whenever I appeared--a sound that I can only describe as a cross between the cries of the damned and a fourteen year old girl at a Justin Bieber concert.

Along with this preoccupation with playing the game, Kota lost all respect for the ATV. That is, until yesterday, when he attempted to bite the front tire while he was in full stride. His right front leg now contains a number of stitches. We will settle up down at Smilin' Jerre's Animal Hospital tomorrow when I pick him up.

I predict Kota will enthusiastically return to the game in a few days when he's all healed. But I bet you he won't get close to the ATV again.

Maybe I can start to enjoy the game again myself--can play it with reckless abandon and no fear. After all, everybody has been injured and learned their lesson.

Except me.

Sunday Ride

Every now and again, a man needs to step away for a while. Take a break from the toils and worries of life. Pick up the broom and knock down the cobwebs in the corners of his mind.

My broom has two wheels. My broom can fly.

I put my motorcycle through the paces yesterday--a 250 mile loop through the rolling hills of central Alabama.

I have had uncertain thoughts about her lately. Maybe she is not the one for me. She isn't the biggest or most powerful thing on two wheels. She doesn't have the prestige of the big Harley cruisers, or the sheer raw power of the Japanese sport bikes. Maybe she isn't big enough, powerful enough, to go the places I want to go and see the things I want to see.

Yesterday she proved me wrong.

She easily handled five hours of 95 degree heat, up and down mountain roads, with nary a hiccup. We even shared the simple pleasure of dusting a few big Harley cruisers on the way up to the top and then back down Mount Cheaha, Alabama's highest point. Big boys couldn't keep up with my little girl. She is nimble. She is lithe. She is quick.

Cobwebs cleared. Confidence restored.

And not a bad view from the top.

Afternoon in the Garden of Good and Evil

Summer has arrived in Alabama. The snakes are out.

Snakes are never really "in" in most of the state. I suppose they go through some form of hibernation, although I have seen them sunning themselves on rocks in December and January on warm Winter days.

Once while hiking in the woods I looked down and found I was standing next to a water moccasin. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and I wasn't really expecting snakes to still be above ground. My boot was right next to his coiled body. I was fortunate that it was cool and his cold reptilian blood was thick, or I would have been bitten. He was alert enough, even in his sluggishness, to show his true nature and intent: thick black body coiled, spade-shaped head back in striking position, mouth open wide, revealing his fangs and the inside of his cotton-colored mouth. Needless to say, I was displeased both with his presence and his attitude.

One of us did not have a happy Thanksgiving.

I generally have a "live and let live" philosophy about snakes. I am even tolerant of poisonous ones, as long as they keep their distance. I make one exception: the cottonmouth water moccasin. I will go out of my way to kill one. I could kill the last one without hesitation, sending the species into the oblivion of extinction.

I have spiritual justification for my bias. There is no doubt that the cottonmouth was the snake that deceived Eve in the garden of Eden. A careful reading of Genesis chapter two reveals this. God made a garden for Adam and Eve, and in this garden He planted two fruit trees, one of which they were instructed not to eat from. You know the rest of the story.

But what you may have missed is that the trees were planted by a river. Clearly, moccasin habitat. I rest my case.

The cottonmouth is the most aggressive of all the snakes in Alabama. They are territorial and will actually advance toward you (other snakes, like most wild animals, have the good sense to flee at man's approach). I don't like aggression in my fellow creatures. I meet it in Marine fashion: "with extreme prejudice."

Some of my hatred of the cottonmouth moccasin is genetic. My ancestors have been at war with this snake for generations.

When I was a boy, I lived next door to my grandparents. They in turn lived next to a steep-banked creek (which we referred to as "the ditch"). The creek bed was probably twenty feet down, and the banks were brushy. It was cottonmouth paradise.

The only memory I have of my maternal grandfather was going next door to sit on the back steps with him each morning while he drank his coffee. I must have been three or four years old at the time (he died when I was young). While we enjoyed each other's company, there would be a big pot of water slowly coming to a boil on the kitchen stove.

When he finished his coffee, we would walk over to the ditch and pull up a long cotton rope, at the end of which was a wire minnow basket.

Most days, the trap would contain a large, angry cottonmouth moccasin.

The basket was laid in the driveway, where the moccasin would thrash and strike the sides of his wire prison. My paw-paw would go into the house and get the pot, which by then contained boiling water.

We would then dispatch the evil viper to moccasin hell, where I'm sure there is weeping and gnashing of fangs. One less snake to slither up and bite an unsuspecting three year old.

No pardons given. Swift and terrible execution by scalding. Good triumphs over evil.

You must excuse me if I end the story here. I think I'm going down to the creek to do some hunting this afternoon.

Survival

Williams Timber is a large company as logging businesses go in Alabama. They have a spacious modern office, several foresters and timber buyers on staff, multiple logging crews, and a whole fleet of log trucks. They are clearly a top-flight organization, not only buying and selling timber but managing and brokering timberland as well.

I meet Mr. Williams in his office in south Alabama. He operates in the same area of the state as Mr. Mac and Vernon. As with the previous two companies, I am interested in the financial health of the business.

Williams Timber appears to be much more prosperous than the former two businesses, so I ask him how things are going.

At no time during the conversation do I sense the desperation I previously encountered. But I sense no optimism, either.

Mr. Williams explains that his logging crews are operating at about 60% of their capabilities. The reason is simple: the mills that they rely on to purchase the harvested timber are full to capacity. Their "order" is reduced, and crews that need to run five to six days a week to be profitable can fill their order in four days. Revenues are down due to the reduced orders, but expenses have increased with no corresponding increase in revenues. Especially significant is fuel cost. The diesel fuel that is the lifeblood of logging is more than one dollar a gallon higher than a year ago. Consider that typical logging operation consumes 1000 gallons a week, and it's easy to see an extra thousand a week can make the difference between survival and failure.

Mr. Williams mentions that he has recently discovered a new way to make a little extra money. It is not something he is especially proud of.

The telephone call came from New York City a few weeks ago. "Do you have a truck and trailer capable of moving logging equipment?"

"Of course. We have to move our equipment all the time."

"Are you familiar with Smith Logging? My records show they operate in your area."

"Yes, I know Joe Smith."

"I want you to go pick up his all of his equipment and bring it to your location. I'll arrange to have it picked up from there. He's seven months behind on his payments."

Mr. Williams goes on to tell that the caller asked him to go at night, when no one would be there. For this service, he would be paid a nice fee.

He initially refuses. "I'm not going to pick up a man's equipment in the middle of the night. I know Joe. Our kids went to school together."

The New Yorker is adamant, but Williams finally persuades him in to allow him to talk with Smith about the situation. Three days later, Smith sends in a partial payment that forestalls the repossession.

A month goes by, and New York calls again. Williams again calls Smith. This time he is told to "come get it."

Since that time, he has picked up the equipment of three other loggers.

Williams shakes his head and sighs. I don't know what some of these ol' boys are going to do if things don't get better soon. We're all struggling to survive.

I don't have an answer either.

I just know the woods are getting a little quieter with each passing day.

The Writing on the Wall

A few weeks ago I stop by a little wood frame house in rural south Alabama. There is a "timber company" sign out front and some worn-out logging machinery in the back lot. I want to meet and introduce myself to the owners. According to my records, they are long-time members of the Alabama Forestry Association, and I want each of us to be able to put a face with a name.

I am invited inside by Vernon, a fifty-something-year-old man who has been in the logging business since his teen years.

There are brief introductions all around. A young and pretty secretary looks up from the spreadsheet she is intently staring at to smile and nod. Vernon's brother and business partner since childhood is slumped in a chair. He offers a half-smile and extends his hand. "Excuse me if I don't get up. I've been in the woods all day and I'm just plain whupped." I understand completely. I've been there. Not that long ago, in fact.

Vernon invites me into his office. Would I care for something to eat or drink? A coke-cola or some sweet tea? I assure him that I am fine. He offers me a seat on a comfortable couch.

Vernon's office is a museum of a life spent in the outdoors. There are hunting trophies on the wall--whitetail deer with magnificent racks, mule deer mounts from out West, wild turkey mounts, and even a beautifully-posed mountain lion. The coffee table is covered with an amazing display of arrowheads of all sizes and descriptions. There are tiny bird points, stone tools, and some of the most exquisite spear points that I have ever seen. Vernon explains that his brother has found most of these treasures in their trips to the woods over the years. He admits that he is not especially good at finding them, as his focus is usually on the trees and not on the ground. I smile, because I have meager collection for the same reason. A timber man is always looking up, evaluating and calculating, so he misses much. It is a clear case of "not being able to see the forest for the trees."

After some small talk, I ask Vernon about his business. He tells me his story in a flat, deadpan manner that reminds me of the narration of Captain Willard as he recounts his mission in the movie "Apocalypse Now."

Vernon's grandfather introduced him to logging when he was just a boy. In those days, pulpwood (or "pupwood" as it is typically pronounced) was cut with chainsaws into 5.25 foot pieces and hand-loaded onto the metal racks on the back of short trucks. It was hard, back-breaking work, but Vernon and his brother loved their grand-daddy and the time they spent with him in the woods.

He remembers that Saturday so long ago when they cut and delivered five loads in a single day. And he especially remembers the pay he received for that day's work. There is a trace of a smile when he says "I didn't know any way a man could spend that much money."

Vernon and his brother were hooked. They continued to work with their grand-daddy until he died, then they started their own business.

I interrupt the story here. I ask if their dad logged with them as well?

"Lord, no. It was my grand-daddy on my momma's side. My daddy was a shop keeper. He tried to log with us one time, but it didn't work out. He was a good man, but too impatient for logging. I swear, I believe daddy could tear up a hammer with his bare hands. He kept breaking all our equipment."

Vernon and his brother did quite well for a long time. As the logging business became more mechanized, they adjusted their business and bought better equipment. The two were soon buying their own timber and running four separate logging crews. Business was good--plenty of mills to haul to, and plenty of timber to cut. There were cycles in the economy when things "slowed down," but overall they made adjustments and stayed profitable.

About ten year's ago, Vernon realized the peaks and valleys in the market were beginning to get shorter. Hard work was no longer the only key to profit. Markets for his timber began to shrink. There was still plenty of timber to cut--just not as many mills around to receive it. He began to explore other options and do some research. Although he doesn't use the word, I understand his thinking. He was looking for a "niche"--an area that was being overlooked by other logging companies.

Vernon found one. He built a small sawmill that transformed low-grade hardwood that other timber companies didn't want into railroad cross ties. He signed a contract with Norfolk-Southern Railroad, and for the next five years they bought every tie he could produce. For a time, it seemed that he would have a problem figuring out a way to spend all that money again. At its peak, the mill employed twenty men and kept all four of his logging crews busy.

Then one day the world changed again. The railroads lost the freight market to truckers and quit buying his product. He searched for other markets, but there were none. Four logging crews quickly shrank to one, and twenty men with sawmill paychecks became ten.

Vernon admits he is fresh out of ideas. He is now faced with record costs and few markets. He is, in his words, "just hanging on."

He shakes his head as he shows me out. Tells me he appreciates me taking the time to stop by and meet him. We both share our hope that the economy will soon get better and his business will pick up.

But I admit that I drive away with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that the writing is already on the wall.