As the giant mulberry branch crashed to earth, nearly crushing me to death, all that ran through my mind was this: “Man, I sure do love these projects with my brother.”
When I say “giant,” I mean the kind of branch that brushes the fuselage of airliners. They never seem so big when you’re standing there pondering the angle of the cut, how it will fall or why if there’s beer in the fridge you’re out here in the first place. But the minute it starts to go — the minute it starts coming for YOU! — the full scope, scale and size become crystal clear.
RUN!
I was standing, I don’t know, a good 30 feet back, holding onto a rope tied to the branch. It made me feel like I had some control over where it would go, even though it was a little like tying dental floss to a bull. Bull gonna’ go where bull wanna’ go. My brother was stationed at the trunk, making imaginary cuts with his growling chain saw.
“Ready,” he called out.
I always love when people call that out. Because you’re never ready. You THINK you’re ready, but the truth is you’re watching butterflies and have know idea that total chaos is about to ensue.
The cutting began and mulberry bits flew out in a rooster tail blizzard of mangled tree chips.
The rope went tight. Tight? It shouldn’t go tight. Tight means it wants to go the other way, in the direction of the power lines or the neighbor’s car. Tight meant all that imaginary cutting and precision angling wasn’t worth a worn sock. Tight meant I would have to fight it like a prized trophy fish, muscling it back toward me. So I did … and it started doing what it was supposed to … coming my way … on target … fast … just as planned …
RIGHT AT ME!
As it began its arcing descent, it occurred to me (as it does to most people right before they die a gruesome death) how I had totally misjudged the height and wasn’t anywhere near what most would consider a safe distance.
I heard my brother shout a warning. Only — I remember this very clearly — it wasn’t to me. “CHASE!” he screamed. “MOVE!” It was to my dog — the DOG! — who was sitting by the fence watching a cat, oblivious to it all. But she knew what to do. We both turned tail and ran.
I love how humans and dogs have this uncanny ability to communicate through their eyes. How in a fraction of a second you can share the same thought through a glance. I never knew my dog knew how to cuss.
We got clear of the branch just as its stinging tips slapped the ground with a WHOOSH and a THUD.
My heart raced, my hands shook and my dog dialed the ASPCA to report a bit of near-death animal smooshing.
And it was at that moment that it came to me: “Man, I sure do love these projects with my brother.”
We hadn’t done something like this in such a long time — something utterly dumb and totally dangerous. One of those around-the-house projects where you have to ask several times, “Is my butt still there?” or “Is my wife gonna’ notice the nail sticking out of my cheek?”
I miss that.
We used to have so many more of these experiences. Climbing on steep-pitched roofs to take down wobbly chimneys. Dangling off wobbly ladders and misusing machinery that could butcher a cow in seconds.
“Man, we used to do terrifyingly stupid things all the time,” I told him later over a beer. “We have got to get together like this more often.”
He agreed, noting there was an oak tree at his house brushing an exposed power line. We could work on that next, he suggested.
That’s how brothers bond and become closer. Not by sitting around talking politics. Not by playing Scrabble. They share danger and adrenaline and fear and an exhausted sense of accomplishment over the roar of a chainsaw and a mighty “kerplunk” from a mulberry tree. Few things are better or more memorable or bring you more together.
Granted, few things are also more deadly, but that’s what brothers are for. And that’s what makes them brothers … even if you do walk away with a branch impaled in your backside.