Just a Dog:

For part 1 and part 2.

A little more about dad

At 28, my father broke his back while hunting. He and a friend were on horseback riding up a small steep draw in the hills near our home. The friend’s horse stopped when he reached the top of the hill and my father’s horse, who was behind the friend’s horse, lost balance on the steep incline and rolled over backward on top of my dad as they both rolled down the hill, breaking his back. He told me that the only thing that went through his head while rolling down the hill was to protect the new rifle he had just bought.

He suffered through years of surgery and traction only to achieve a small modicum of normalcy. It all happened before I was born. My oldest siblings grew up knowing a father I didn’t. One who wasn’t crippled by accidental circumstance. Debbie, Jim, Gwen, and Leigh-ann would have known, however briefly, a man who was fit and able-bodied. My sister Johna would have grown up during that period of surgery and traction. Mom (and dad to an extent) talked about the memories of that time with me. I knew from a young age dad had back problems. At the time, I didn’t understand what that meant but can appreciate it now.

Despite the pain and the anguish, he worked almost to the day he died in 1995. He couldn’t find a job that would hire him after he broke his back, so he did odd jobs, scrap metal and wood cutting were two of the most common ones. It was cutting wood he found One Gallon.

Cutting wood

In the late 80s and early 90s, the BLM leased allotments of land to be clear cut, removing all the trees. This meant that not only were the trees cut down and hauled off, but so were the remnants of the trees. One of the first sections parcelled out was in a canyon in east-central Utah known as Five-Mile Canyon. My father bought the rights to the first section, and then once he finished it helped with another section, my brother-in-law’s family had the rights too and then bought the rights to a third. He spent the better part of a decade cutting wood on these parcels, and he loved being out there doing it.

I spent a decent portion of my youth on the wood sale, helping dad cut wood. I would load the piles of wood into the truck, stack them up and then move brush and branches out of dad’s way, piling it up to burn until he could move the truck to the next pile of wood. We’d break for lunch, usually around 11:30 or noon, then finish the day out. He’d cut until five or six (or four or four-thirty if it was winter) then we’d pile up in the truck and head home. This was how I spent most of my weekends and holidays.

I didn’t like it then. I’ll admit. It wasn’t the work, but then again it contributed to my dislike. It had more to do with not being able to go and do the things my friends were doing. Sleepovers were pretty uncommon, and when I went on one, my parents usually cut it short the next morning. In hindsight, I appreciate my time cutting wood. My father was an incredibly kind-hearted, jovial man who struggled with demons I’ll never fully appreciate. He could be stern and short-tempered at times, but he was never cruel or abusive. Going with him to cut wood, or search for scrap metal and old cars, or just make the rounds visiting his various friends helped me appreciate him and love him. I have to consider myself lucky that unlike many of my peers; I got to spend a lot of time with my father because he could take me with him when he worked.

Next time I’ll talk about One Gallon, my dad’s guardian angel.