Widowmakers

I have wonderful neighbors.  One is a retired machinist, which comes in handy for me.  Being able to tap into his expertise has often times helped me. He is talented in many ways, including having the best garden along the north shore - maybe all of Minnesota!  He’s a giving man, Melissa and I benefit from his bountiful harvest every summer and fall. 
Gene is a Finlander, through and through, and mighty proud of it; he’s also a great storyteller with a charming accent. I love listening to him share his tales. 
I’m a bit of a storyteller myself.  That may come from being Irish on my mother’s side.  Between the two of us, storytelling can become competitive.
One summer day, I took a few slices of homemade cherry pie on a plate and walked to his house just down the road. Lois greeted me at the door.  “Hello. Come in, come in.” She said with a big, warm smile, her arm extended, welcoming me to the dining room. “Oh, would you look at that pie! It looks wonderful!” She praised, then turned and hollered through the house, “Geno! Tom is here.”  
“I’m coming.” Came a reply from the hallway.
Lois offered me a beverage. “I can’t stay long,” I said. “But how about a Jack Daniels with a splash of Coke?”
Lois blushed, “Well, I don’t believe I have any of that here. How about some fresh-brewed iced tea or water?”  I enjoyed a tall, cool glass of iced tea.
Gene entered the room, greeted me, and said, “I’ve got a lot of lettuce in the garden.  I’ll send some home with you.”  He pulled up a chair, and we began to chat. He took a fork and started on the first slice of cherry pie with a lattice top.
He told an impressive story. Lois jumped in at the end, declaring, “Geno, you embellish your stories.”
He quickly justified his position, “Of course I embellish them. Nobody wants to hear a boring story.” We shared a good laugh over that, and I made a mental note for future reference: nobody wants to hear a boring story.
After we said our farewells, I headed out the door, leaving them with their pie. Gene followed me outside with a plastic sack in his hand. “Let me get some lettuce for you. I’ve got a couple different kinds. Lettuce doesn’t last long once it’s ready, so you take all you want.” Melissa and I had an amazing garden-fresh salad that evening with dinner.
A few weeks later, after church, I went downstairs to enjoy the pancake breakfast the Knights of Columbus served.  I sat at the men’s table with Gene.  The conversation was about chainsaws and how good we were at cutting and trimming trees.  It soon turned to mishaps that occurred while doing so.
I told a story. “When I was about fifteen, I was already pretty good with a chainsaw, yet still in the learning stages.  I was standing on a four-foot ladder, cutting a branch about seven inches in diameter from the crabapple tree.
This wasn’t one of the newer, sturdy green Werner plastic ladders with the yellow top step.  It was an old wooden ladder that was wobbly and swayed back and forth.  You had to keep rhythm with it to maintain your footing.  As I cut through the branch, it started falling toward me.  I knew it was going to knock me and the ladder over, so I jumped to save myself before that could happen.
As I came down, landing on my feet, my knees naturally bent to absorb the impact. As you can imagine, while I was jumping with a running chainsaw, I had a firm grip on it.  Inadvertently, I had squeezed the throttle wide open, and the spinning chain came down, hitting the top of my left thigh.
I instantly pulled up on the chainsaw. As I was standing up, I hit the kill switch, throwing the saw away from me.  I stripped right there in the yard to examine my injuries.  I feared losing my leg; I was prepared for the worst!
The saw shredded my jeans, cut through my heavy thermal underwear, and got my leg.  There was just a little blood, about the same amount you would get from a nasty scratch. My cat-like reflexes saved my limb, possibly even my life, but I tell ya, it sure could have been a lot worse.”  The men were all in awe, praising me for saving the leg.
The Finlander leaned forward; I feared he would one-up me.  “Do you know what it means when a tree jumps?” He asked me.  
“Sure.” I answered, “It’s when the falling tree comes completely separated from the stump, and the trunk literally jumps up in the air. It can be dangerous when it jumps to the side.”
Impressed by my knowledge, Gene said, “That’s right,” then rolled into his story. “One day, I was cutting down a birch tree; they call them widowmakers because the tops can fall on your head. They’ve been known to kill a few men, so you need to know what you're doing – you have to be real careful.  
“Anyway, I cut through the trunk, and this monster tree started to fall.  Right at the end, the trunk broke loose and jumped up from the stump. The tree came my way and hit me while I was still holding my chainsaw; it flipped me and the saw, sending us straight up at least ten feet or so into the air.
“I did a full somersault - a complete three-sixty- before returning and landing on my feet.  Now, while flipping twenty-five feet through the air, I held that saw real firm with my hand still on the throttle. The saw still ran wide open when I landed and hit my leg.
“I shut the saw off, then set it down to check my leg.  That chain ripped through my Carhartt’s, my jeans, my long underwear, and my leg.  
“I was bleeding pretty good, but it wasn’t that bad. Some of the boys thought I should go get stitches, but I just called up to the house, ‘Lo, bring me some Band-Aids.’ I put a couple of Band-Aids on it and kept cutting wood the rest of the day.”
The men around the table were astonished.  Clearly, I was defeated by a more experienced master storyteller.  
Now there are some unwritten rules in competitive, embellished storytelling.  One must never directly denounce, discredit, or attempt to put down their opponent. You have to be a bit passive-aggressive when one-upping.
I looked at Gene to clarify, “You were launched thirty-some feet, possibly more, into the air, did a complete somersault, and still landed on your feet while holding your chainsaw?”  
“That’s right.  I came down with my saw still running in my hands.” He assured. Gene was prepared to defend the integrity of his story. Of course, I wasn’t there when it happened, so I couldn’t challenge the validity of his story.
I looked at him and said, “You’re a Finlander, aren’t you?”  
Gene sat up straight with his chest puffed out, “You’re darn right I am, and what of it?”  
I grinned, then bragged, “Because I am an Irishman. An Irishman would have topped the next tree while he was up there.”
We all shared a good laugh over that.  “Have a great day, gentlemen.” I offered. Saying no more, I quickly gathered my dishes, then headed for the door before the Finlander had a chance for rebuttal.
I have wonderful neighbors, and I appreciate Gene teaching me about widowmakers; they can be dangerous.
A few weeks ago, I was driving west on Bergquist Road just outside Two Harbors. We’d had plenty of high winds along the north shore, and a tree top snapped off a big birch tree. “Wow,” I told my dog, Nova Mae, “that’s the biggest widowmaker I’ve ever seen!” I turned the van around to get a photo.
I only pulled the van about halfway to the narrow gravel shoulder and turned the flashers on. “You wait here,” I told Nova as I grabbed my phone and got out of the van.
Walking in the grass, I noticed how steep and deep the ditch was, eventually running into a small creek at the bottom. “Boy, I’d hate to run over that embankment,” I said to myself. I took several photos of the broken tree top, then saw something in the grass that caught my attention.
An empty Smirnoff Vodka bottle lay in the ditch; not far from it was an empty Fireball bottle. I shook my head. “I’ll guarantee, drinking and driving has made far more widows than all the birch trees in the north woods put together,” I said. “Then, you had to throw your empty bottles in the ditch to boot. Nice.” I was disgusted but still picked up their trash and started walking back to my van. Something else caught my attention.
Nova Mae was sitting in my seat; she always does that when I get out, but something was strange. It looked like she was sitting at an angle. “Holy crap,” I yelled. “The van is sinking into the shoulder.” I hurried back to the van.
I turned the steering wheel slightly toward the road and slowly drove forward, but the van only slid farther into the ditch. I put the van in reverse and tried to back up onto the pavement, but again, I went even deeper into the ditch. “This is not good,” I told Nova Mae. I made one more short attempt to pull forward, but still, the van slid farther away from the road.
I was recalling how deep and steep the embankment was in my mind, and that I did not want to go over the edge. My van is a high-profile vehicle, and I seriously thought it would roll over. I reached for Nova’s leash. “Come on, girl. If this thing is going to roll, we’re not going to be in it when it does.” I never realized how heavy the van doors are, especially pushing them at a sharp angle. Finally, I pushed the door open, and Nova and I climbed out. 
I called the St. Louis County Sheriff’s Department. “Are you away from the vehicle and safely off the road?” the dispatcher asked. When I assured her I was, she said she would send a deputy and a wrecker. Nova and I waited in the grass.
Several people stopped in four-wheel-drive pickups, offering to help. “I’m afraid if I try to move it again, it’s going to roll,” I told them. It’s not worth the risk; I’m going to wait for the wrecker to pull me out.” They each agreed.
The Sheriff’s Deputy arrived shortly. “Did you just drift off the road,” he asked. 
“No, I pulled over to take a photo of that tree,” I said, pointing to the birch.
“The widowmaker,” He asked. “You got a little too close to the edge, eh?” 
“No,” I said. I showed the deputy my tire tracks on the shoulder. “I wasn’t far on the shoulder at all,” I said. “The van just started sinking, and when I tried to move it, it slid farther into the ditch. I was afraid it was going to roll, so I called for a tow.”
“You probably made the right call,” the deputy said. 
While waiting for the tow truck, I pointed to the empty liquor bottles in the ditch. “I’ll bet bottles in the ditch have made a lot more widows than all the birch trees in the north woods combined.”
“That’s for sure,” the deputy said, “and I’ve been on too many of those calls.” 
Just then, the driver from Two Harbors Towing arrived, assessed the situation, and decided how to pull the van out of the ditch. “Do you want to climb into the driver’s seat,” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. The tow driver assured me the van wouldn’t roll once he connected it to the truck. 
“Once I get hooked onto the van and get a little tension on the cable, I need you to put it in neutral and turn the wheels slightly toward the road.” I trusted the driver, but just in case….
I took Nova and handed her leash to the sheriff's deputy. “Just in case it goes over, there’s no sense in both of us being in the van.” ​

The deputy held the dog, and the driver winched my van out of the ditch without incident, saving the day.
Nova and I continued on our way out Bergquist Road. I called the person I was going to meet and told them I would be delayed about an hour. 
So, my neighbor Gene taught me what a widowmaker is, as in a birch tree, and I already knew drinking and driving can be a widowmaker. I’m just glad I didn’t discover that Ford vans can also be widowmakers, especially when driven on soft shoulders near steep embankments.