The hands of a logger

No. 2 in a series of things I wrote in J-school

The hands of a logger are awesome; real loggers’ hands, not those of an equipment operator or foreperson. My grandpa’s hands reminded me of my first baseball glove… perfect for the job, leathery and big. When he shook my hand, I feared it would not come back to me in the same shape. My hands are small, possibly stunted by intimidation.

I said these would be short.

Tomorrow, a visit to the doctor.

Moving on from stress and silence

I’ve moved from a dark, old, dirty depressing basement suite to a bright, new, clean and uplifting suite across town.

I had from the 18th until the end of the month to move, thanks to the generosity of my new landlord. That it only took five days should give you a sense of how much I wanted to get it done.

Moving provides opportunities to purge and cleanse. I’ve consolidated my collection of family and personal treasures into totes and destroyed the original boxes for appliances, cookware, cutlery, etc. This alone should be a good motivator to stay put awhile. It’s ridiculous how many addresses I’ve had… and how many ROEs I’ve collected.

During the move, I took an evening to also shed the many binders of notes, essays, projects and the like from my years at Thompson Rivers University. I’ve kept only those things I wrote as I worked toward my BA of Journalism. So, I’m going to post a few of the shorter ones; those that either amused me or tweaked my creative side. Strangely, it doesn’t appear I kept any of the electronic versions.

This first one was a short modelling exercise, done in Maxine Ruvinsky’s class. She seemed to have a knack for bringing out my creative writing. I can’t recall who we were modelling but here’s the result.

Stress and silence. Those are the stifling swords slicing away at a brain depressed. They don’t stick around, the cowards. They slash and whizz about your thoughts with evil ferocity and riotous anger. Circling like a buzzard, or a buzzsaw, the most serious of the two is silence. It draws you inside yourself, suffocating with a sea of sorrow. It pushes friends away and strikes like a snake-lunge of nothingness into the jugulars of strangers.

Stress starts the firestorm of silence in some. It whips across memories and time, fanning tempests of pain, rising from ashes of loneliness.

My second post in this series will be tomorrow… where I’ll discuss the hands of a logger.

Re-Working Some Old Photos


, , , , , , , ,

Glad I had the RAW files. I shot these with a Nikon D70s. It was just 6 MP so the coyote and eagle are cropped. I was way too close to the bear (but there was a park ranger with a weapon there so I felt okay.)

Clicking any of these will open them in a larger viewer.

POLL: Tim Hortons New Dark Roast

dark roast

POLL: Kootenay Ice


, , ,

What do you say, Cranbrook WHL fans? Have you seen enough and think a change at the top will stop the bleeding?

Vote now:

Thanks for voting!



Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.