AFLOAT IN TIME

A memoir of James Sirois as a young man growing up with the Gildersleeve family on a floating logging camp along the northern BC Coast.

Sitting on the Ax

One hot summer afternoon the camp ladies had gathered at my mother's house for tea and cookies, a commonplace ritual. They shared this important social responsibility on a rotational basis.

In a microcosm community such as ours was, one wonders what the ladies found to discuss the hour or so the gathering lasted. I know that at least one member belonged to the Book of the Month Club. She no doubt had the literary advantage and could regale the others with the latest chapters in her current book. I confess that I really have no idea what they discussed in general, but whatever the subject, their voices were mixed with many outbursts of laughter.

On this particular afternoon in front of my mother's house, I was engaged in one of my daily responsibilities of chopping kindling for the wood-burning heaters. My friend Pete Gazzola had shortened the handle of a standard double-bitted falling ax for me, so that at nine years of age I was wielding the ax in one hand like a small hatchet. I was only subconsciously aware of the chatter coming from the house while I was rapidly producing large piles of cedar kindling around my feet. Soon it became difficult for me to move my feet without stumbling over piles of sticks. With a single motion and without moving my feet, I turned my torso toward the rear and stuck the ax in the boardwalk directly in back of me. Bending over from the waist, I proceeded to gather the kindling into a neatly stacked pile alongside the boardwalk. Absentmindedly, as I concentrated on this task, I apparently must have altered my position, because, bouncing down to reach a few stray sticks, I sat squarely on the ax head.

The recollection of squatting to my knees and embedding the razor edge of that ax in my buttock close to my genitals is not one of pain. The ax was so sharp that there was no pain, as such. It was more like a hot burning sensation. Instantly, I realized my mistake and clamped my hand under my rump feeling the hot sticky gush of blood. Observing a pool of blood in my cupped hand, I panicked and without thinking, ran into the house where the ladies were winding down their tea party. When the women saw the blood on my hands and I announced that my rear end was wounded, they all jumped me at once.

Before I could prevent it, my bib overalls were down to my ankles and I was stretched bum up over someone's lap like a sack of potatoes. No one seemed to care that I wore no underwear, except me. My embarrassment was total. I've no doubt my face was redder than the wound on my rear. Everyone, however, had to be involved in how to keep me from bleeding to death. The gash was a couple of inches long and I don't know how deep, the blood was gushing out. I remember comments like, "Wow, would you look at that" and "My goodness gracious, my, my." I suppose they were referring to the size of the ax gash, but due partly to my embarrassment I was highly suspect of their real interest.

When the initial shock of my bloody bare buttocks staring up at them wore off, some applied absorbent gauze while others held the gash closed as best they could. The wound bled profusely for the next hour or so but finally clotted over and stopped bleeding so long as I laid still on my bed. I wasn't very active the next few days as the cut would open up and begin bleeding again. I walked around slowly like I had dropped a load in my pants and those who relished dark humor made bad jokes at my expense.

You can buy "Afloat In Time" from the publisher at Hancock House (1-800-938-1114)