Published: November 05, 2009 03:03 pm      

Tailgating is no party for Crutch | TOM LAVIS

BY TOM LAVIS

TLAVIS@TRIBDEM.COM

Crutch Crupnik stopped by the house the other afternoon and announced that he had just ran over an all-black woolly worm on my driveway.

“Do you know what that means?” Crutch asked.

I just stood there looking over his shoulder at the worm’s remains.

“It means I have no time to waste,” Crutch squawked. “I have to find more firewood.”

He went on to say that when woolly worms are coal black, it signifies a hard winter ahead.

When you own a fireplace or wood-burning stove, the question that plagues you is: Where on earth am I going to find enough wood?

“Are you with me or not?” Crutch asked.

“I’ll go just to appease you,” I said.

He quickly departed to get his chain saw, and returned to pick me up about 20 minutes later.

The last time we searched for firewood was during the midsummer storm season. Gusting winds and lightning caused havoc in our area, and people were more than willing to have someone clean up the debris from the storm.

I discouraged Crutch from driving around aimlessly because autumn is when everybody is looking for wood, and most deadfalls would have been scarfed up long ago.

I persuaded Crutch to drive past Big Shady’s Hardware Store and Ice Cream Stand with hopes there would be some firewood stacked where the flowers and vegetable plants had been displayed during the summer.

I was right. However, there were only 10 or 15 pieces of wood remaining under a sign that read: “Firewood, Highly Flammable.”

Shady is a master of marketing.

“Our best bet would be to get on private property and locate some timber,” I said.

“That’s a great idea,” Crutch said. “Lets sneak down to the old Miller farm. No one will know we are there.”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head in disgust.

“You’re not a teenager anymore; we are going to be adults and ask permission,” I said.

As we entered the Miller property, we spied in the corner of a field what looked like an old apple tree that was either dead or dying.

Crutch began to salivate.

“Nothing burns hotter than apple wood,” he said.

He dropped me off and told me to carry the saw and the gas can to the tree. Then he drove off down the lane to talk to Old Man Miller.

Just as I got the saw filled with gas, I heard Crutch returning. He opened a gate and drove through the field.

“Let’s do it,” he said, parking the truck near the tree, which was growing along Willow Creek.

I suggested he park the truck somewhere else because if the tree fell the wrong way, it would crush the vehicle.

“Trees can be unpredictable.” I said.

“Don’t be afraid to go out on a limb if you want to enjoy the fruit,” he said as he fired up the saw.

He notched the tree and, with great confidence, walked around the other side and started to cut through the trunk.

As the saw ate through the wood, the tree started to fall where Crutch had intended.

But faster than you could say Johnny Appleseed, the crooked tree twisted and began falling toward Willow Creek – and Crutch’s pickup.

The tree landed with a resounding thud.

Unfortunately, I had left the truck’s tailgate open when I removed the saw. A large limb came crashing down directly on the tailgate, making a bumper-tailgate sandwich.

“What did you do wrong?” I yelled.

“I didn't borrow ‘your’ truck,” he said.

Crutch’s hard winter has begun, and he won’t be able to worm out of this one.