Not all, but most of the loggers I worked with were animals. I don’t know how else to describe them. In any conversation the “F” bomb flew around like bees that just had their nest kicked. In fact there were a few who had no idea how to put a sentence together without integrating the word at least once or twice. Sometimes far more. And their sense of humor could be just as crude. A case in point.
During the summer months we had a few college students that worked in the woods for extra money. The normal garb of a logger was a hard hat, Hickory shirt and bobbed off denims held up by suspenders. Of course when the “greenhorns” showed up they wanted to look the part. So there they’d be on their first day, shiny new hard hat, Hickory shirt, jeans and suspenders.
Though I was a log loading operator the last 13 years I worked in the woods, my first 5 years was out on the rigging. That’s a slang term for working a 110 foot iron logging tower that pulled the logs into the landing. Then the rigging with three chokers hanging from it would come back out to the four man crew out in the brush. At the time that’s where I was working.
We were assigned one of these new recruits. This particular day was hotter than the blazes. We were all sweating like pigs. Anyway, this new employee said he had to go take a dump. So off he went to find some privacy. Not long after he returned we began getting strange whiffs.
“Who in the f*** crapped their pants?” our rigging slinger asked with a twisted face.
We all looked around, checking our corked boots to make certain we hadn’t stepped in anything. This went on for some time. Finally one of the guys spotted it. He got our attention, pointed, and then put his finger to his lips not to say anything. We silently nodded. Our new recruit had obviously pulled down his drawers, suspenders hanging, and preceded to take a crap, his suspenders being in the direct line of fire. He then pulled up his britches and pulled the now soiled suspenders back over his shoulders. After that with each move the remnants smeared all over the back of his shirt.
Now the normal human being would have told him what had happened. But not a logger! No siree bob! This was just too good to waste on a couple minutes of laughs. So because it was almost the end of the work day we remained quiet, wanting to see how long it would take before he figured it out for himself. He never did. The area we were logging was just a couple hundred yards off a county road, so we all drove our vehicles to the site.
“Damn,” he remarked for about the tenth time, as he walked toward his car, “I can still smell it!”
The rest of the crew lagged behind for one last look at his backside, overjoyed that it was still carrying plenty of “character.”
The next morning our college student showed up, his eyes flashing fire. “You jerks! You just couldn’t tell me it was me, could you!”
Needless to say, his tirades were like throwing gasoline on the fires of mirth. The more detail he went into, the harder came the laughs. Not knowing it, he had smeared the residuals all over the back of the seat of his fancy red car. Because it was hot and he was thirsty he stopped at a convenience store to get a soda. He finally discovered what had happened when he turned to a cute young lady behind him in the check out line. Being a young stud, he smiled and asked how she was doing. “Good until now,” she said with a twisted face. “Sir, do you know you have…shit all over your back?”
He immediately bolted out the door, stripping off his shirt as he walked across the parking lot. The shirt and suspenders went in the garbage can. And then he saw the back of the seat in his car….
By the time he finished his detailed account the crew was bent over in tears. Like I said…animals!