I was surrounded by about seven young kids, all wide-eyed and curious. “Excuse me, mister. You’re The Logger aren’t you?” they asked. This far from Onalaska and they know of me? This can’t be happening. It’s just far too awesome. “Maybe,” I respond casually. “You do all the cool swingy stuff with you ax. You’re like a superhero.” Where’d these kids come from and where have they been all my life? They think I’m a superhero! “Can I play with your ax?” one of them asks. “’Fraid not. See, this ax is made of a special wood that weighs 14 bajillion pounds. I’m the only one that can carry it.” “Nuh-uh.” “Uh-huh.” I’m standing by this point. I look at the clock. The game is about to start. “Well, looks like I’m needed on the court. It was nice meeting y’all though.” “Swing your ax. Just once. Pleeeaaasse.” “I really got to go. I’m sorry.” Their dejected faces melted my shrinking heart. Truth be told, the only reason I said no was because I didn’t want to accidentally hit one of them. I walked away, feeling like Shane. Just as I was about to round the corner, I stopped. I tightened my grip on the wooden ax and I swung, engulfing myself in the flurry of its golden blade. I never turned around. I didn’t need to. I could hear their smiles. Every time I wear my flannel I’m reminded of where I come from. I’m reminded of my failure and am driven never to repeat it. It weighs heavy on my shoulders, but it’s a burden I am content to carry. I’ll keep a flicker of hope lit, longing for a time that it’ll once again be a great day to be a logger, but until then, I’m just a skinny guy who thinks he’s John Wayne.
Manastash 2013
79