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Machines, Mean, Many, Men.
Today, September 14th, 2000
So Ben and I were up by the thirteenth green fighting the anti-erosion fight, when I glance down the hill and see this big dark thing sliding--no, crawling across the fairway. We walked towards what turned out to be a rather large snapping turtle that had apparently crawled out of the deep woods. It looked prehistoric, like a dinosoaur. Not being prehistoric myself, I foolishly tried to pick up the twenty pound turtle by the shell. I nearly had my fingers shortened, completely underestimating the length and dexterity of a snapper's neck. We kept our reptilian friend in custody until Will the boss came over and said he would "let Evrett take care of it". I didn't feel so good about that, because Evrett, in addition to having a hot temper, operates the bulldozer.
Meanwhile, down on the fifteenth fairway, Mike attempted to dump all of the sand in his dump truck without opening the rear gate. The entire truck stood up on its hind wheels, much to its driver's dismay, and stayed there until three men and one giant D5 Catepillar managed to remedy the problem. I missed all of this because I was busy trying to bump-start the Mantis on the cartpath that flanks the thirteenth fairway. "The Mantis" is my name for a large and impractical powerhouse of a jalopy built from the insides of 30-year-old Ford F250, some plywood, four airplane tires, welded steel, and a piece of string. It has a "clutch lever" made from a length of pipe. I couldn't get it started because the battery posts were corroded. After my hand absorbed a few shocks, I needed a coffe break.
Our coffee break didn't come until 10:30 because Jack, after swamping Ted's pickup in ultra-soft sand, spent twenty minutes hunting for jumper cables to get Willy's Chevy started. Once he finally made it off the property, the truck ran out of gas halfway down the road to Ellis Haven campgrounds. The little restaraut there has excellent muffins. Jack should know, because after buying too many, he tried to eat about four of them. Luckily, everything gets put on the tab.
At noon, while we were making sandwiches in the Will's kitchen, I slipped outside, grabbed both of Ted's boots and one of his socks off the porch, and put them on the roof of the house. Two day's ago, Ted "accidentally" dumped a shovelful of dirt in my shorts. Such carelessness does not go unchecked in these parts. For about ten minutes, Ted blamed Duke the dog for his lost boots, until he saw them on the roof and swatted them down with a broom.
While Ben, Jack and I were mowing the green surrounds on hole seven, we smelled smoke. In fact, we could see the smoke, but we didn't pay much attention. And not until an hour later, when we saw a long red fire engine trying to back down a steep cart path and pull out along the edge of a cranberry bog, did we run over to see what happened. Well it seems that Mike's late model Nissan pick-up, parked comfortably by the end of hole nine, decided to burst into flames without warning while Will was fertilizing the green using the walking spreader. The truck was totally crispy, with one melted tire. The extra gas tank we keep in the bed for fueling up carts mowers probably didn't do much to discourage the flames. Everything was charred black. I ran home for my camera.
As dusk approached, I busied myself plucking gigantic weeds from the eighth surrounds, the getting the blade on the new Toro push mower ensnarled in some burlap erosion matting. Later, as oil leaked out, my mower started coughing up blue smoke.
Tomorrow, I do it all again.
No stories, no movement.
11:48 PM |
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