Hollace Baughman is seventy three years old.
Just last week we fell a two hundred foot fir.
Fifteen thousand pounds of canopy broke off
when the teeth of the saw ate into the holding wood.
I tapped his shoulder turned and ran like hell.
The tree crashed and missed Hollace by a foot.
In the silence we stood there until he turned
and in his Arkansas accent said "That was close."
He was a champion log cutter in his younger days.
Had a chainsaw made out of a snowmobile engine.
Could slice through three foot of tree in three seconds.
He smokes a cigarette and we finish cutting the tree.
I am glad he can still move like lightning because
he wife is only forty years old and would blame me.
I can say he has lived on the far edge all his life
and the years I've known him he's never raised his voice.
He always keeps a slight smile on his face, always greets
strangers with a direct look and a nod of his head.
We share a flask of home grown whiskey and it is smooth.
If he was not a lumberjack he could run moonshine.
"We need to go hunting again." He tells me. "High up where
the big bulls are." I nod. 'It's quite a hike.'
"No problem." Hollace smiles. "I have you to carry the skillet."
There is nothing better than humor from an old friend.
There is nothing better than a friend who knows how to live.
Honorable mention
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