Column: Al Batt, Tales from Exit 22

The casino gods had not smiled upon Jack Potts.

He had learned that he had two chances of beating the odds—slim and fat.

Some folks have no need to figure things out. Either they know things instinctively or they don’t care. That’s not true of most of us. We struggle to understand. That’s why life is a sitcom. The story I’m about to tell involves Jack’s efforts to become a pseudo lumberjack. Like most stories, if it sounds too stupid to be true, it’s factual.

Jack’s losing streak in the gambling arena forced him to either economize or work harder. Most days, Jack didn’t pretend to work. He was born tired and raised lazy, so he looked for ways to cut costs. He decided that he’d eliminate the high-priced fuel used to heat his home. He announced to all who would listen that he was entering the ranks of those who burned wood.

Jack had a casual awareness of the wood-burning process. He bought a woodstove and had it installed in his house. He had a chimney put in. Jack had few trees of his own, so he knew he would be transporting wood to his abode. He purchased one of those little barn-like structures seen at home improvement centers to house the wood waiting to be burned. He obtained a hearse to haul the wood. The hearse was painted in camouflage colors in the belief that if deer can’t see something, they are less likely to hit it. He got it from his Uncle Mort Postem.

Mort had acquired a new hearse for his funeral home and repainted the old one because his wife told him not to. The odometer had only 43,000 miles on it, but it hadn’t been inside the hearse in 14 years. Jack obtained the hearse at no cost after promising not to look under the hood until the vehicle was in Jack’s name. Mort said that no one should ever look a gift hearse in the mouth.

I offered him my axe, but Jack dismissed it as a no-talent hack. Jack searched for a chainsaw app on his iPhone. Not finding one, he bought the best and most expensive saw he could find at Saint Menard’s Hardware Store. It was the Tree Mangler Model 666, complete with an airbag. The saw came with ear protection and goggles. The Saint gave Jack a demonstration on safe chainsaw usage.

It was a day not without charm. A morning like the description of a fine wine — medium-bodied, with a varietal cut of cool sunlight and a hint of winter. Until this day, Jack’s idea of communing with nature had been to slap a mosquito.

Jack put the chainsaw into his camouflaged hearse and drove to his Uncle Loopy’s farm just south of the town of Two Bits. Loopy had given Jack permission to cut down a dead tree in the puckerbrush. Jack got out of the hearse, carrying his chainsaw. He put on ear protection, goggles and a motorcycle helmet. I was the length of a football field away, cutting up a tree that had fallen in a windstorm on another’s property. Jack fired up the saw. It whined like a convention of husbands. Jack was amazed how the saw cut through the tree like a hot knife through butter. The tower had cleared the flying pigs for takeoff.

Jack had forgotten that he was out of his element and that risk assessment wasn’t one of his strong points.

He would have yelled “Timber,” but it would have been inaudible over the sound of the chainsaw. Jack stepped back and watched with pride as the tree fell. Right onto his hearse. The camouflage paint was unable to save it. The tree fell in a slow motion that included instant replays.

It wasn’t what Jack had in mind. Most things in life aren’t what we had in mind. Jack didn’t have to search for a shudder to run up and down his spine.

The hearse suffered much damage, but not as much damage as Jack’s ego had sustained.

The tree may have taken a slice out of his ego, but Jack is not one to lead an unexamined life.

“Do you have any constructive criticism to offer?” asked Jack after I had run to the scene to see if he were OK.

“It’s not your fault,” I said in a way I hoped would comfort. “The hearse should have been wearing a safety helmet.”

Jack Potts has a chainsaw and a woodstove for sale. The hearse, more damaged than camouflaged, is free to a good home, but don’t look under the hood until it’s in your name.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.