Posted on September 27, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Keeping my distance from the sawmill

 

 

I became so proficient at the green chain that I got a promotion. From time to time businesses and government offer incentives in order to retain promising employees.  How anyone can determine that a worker on the green chain has potential boggles the mind.  Like the Jeffersons, I was “Movin’ on Up”.  They offered me more money and the chance to work on the celebrated construction crew at the mill.  The guys on the green chain didn’t have a going away party for me, although we visited The Colony for a few pints when I got the good news.  More like a “good riddance” celebration.

You’re all familiar with industrial vehicles that have a beacon on the roof and make a beeping sound when they are going in reverse? They may as well have put one of these ornaments on my construction helmet that lit up with the words “rookie” flashing on it.  Construction guys, I have learned, love to play games with greenhorns.

Being a very large mill, there were always construction projects on the books. The mill was installing a new piece of equipment and our job was to build a concrete pad for the apparatus to sit on.  The old equipment was dismantled and carted away.  The base for the new pad had to be reconstructed, which required removal of the old concrete. This required a jackhammer.  You know who gets this job on a construction crew?  The rookie, of course.

I had studied Shakespeare and Chaucer and I understood democracy and Pavlov’s dog from my years at university. Nowhere did I ever learn about the art of the jackhammer.

There are a few things you need to know about this tool. First, it is heavy.  Back then I was a 155 pound weakling.  Today I am a 180 pound weakling.  The only major difference in the ensuing 41 years is that I have far less hair now.

I began the task at hand.   I pressed the button to activate the device and instantaneously I felt every fibre of my being convulsing.  Shards of concrete blew up towards my face (protected by goggles) and dust filled my nose and lungs.  All of this happened in the first thirty seconds, and this was an eight hour shift.  Ten minutes later, my arms trembled from the vibrations and I was already anticipating the first coffee break.  I thought I saw a few guys on the crew grinning.  I spilled the first mouthful of coffee.

When I crawled into bed after my first shift on the jackhammer, every muscle in my body ached and the bed felt like there was an earthquake percolating directly beneath it.

They say that you can get used to anything, and eventually I got the hang of it. I decided quickly that I didn’t want to become good at this job.

Once the forms were put in place, it was time to pour the cement. As the pad covered a very large surface area and the cement mixer could only get so close, the wet and heavy sludge had to be wheeled across a narrow plank to get to some of the more remote areas.

There is a real knack to transporting cement in a wheelbarrow. Unfortunately, the History of Western Civilization course that I had taken in university made no mention of this ancient skill.  Once again, the experienced members of the construction crew gathered around to watch my maiden voyage across the slender bridge with a fully loaded wheelbarrow.  Another form of “walking the plank”.  I learned that you can’t manhandle cement.  You have to use the laws of physics … but I hadn’t majored in science.

I managed to get the barrow moving forward, but in a matter of seconds its entire contents, along with me, were splayed on the ground.

Right then and there I started to contemplate a new line of work. I needed to come up with a concrete plan that didn’t involve concrete.  Wet or dry.

Posted on September 23, 2014 under Storytelling with one comment

Thrills at the mill

 

 

What does a freshly minted university graduate do, with degrees in English and Political Science, to utilize these newfound skills? With the ink barely dry on the diploma, he gets a one way ticket to Victoria and starts his new life and real education working in the forestry industry.

I was travelling with a friend the other day and we passed a sawmill. I saw a mountain of sawdust and I was instantaneously transported back in time.  Fresh out of school, it was time to start earning a living and dealing with the weighty issues of life, like repaying student loans.  Unlike some of my classmates who had embarked upon their career path in grade 4, I had no idea what a person did with a piece of parchment that said “Bachelor of Arts”. I knew what bachelor meant, and managed to maintain that lofty status until the age of 31.

Back in the early 1970’s, the forestry industry was the linchpin of the economy in British Columbia. There were massive mills dotted around the province churning out millions of board feet of lumber, much of it shipped to our neighbors to the south.  All I knew about sawmills was that they paid wages that were better than average.

To this day, I’m not sure why they hired me and I am equally uncertain how I managed to last one day, let alone six months.

One thing you need to know about sawmills is that they are incredibly loud places to work. It takes a lot of machinery to run this type of operation.  If you think listening to Aerosmith live is an eardrum splitting exercise, belly up on top some of the gigantic saws in a mill to get some perspective.

The green chain. According to Wikipedia, “The green chain’s purpose is to collect the final product of the mill and move it at a controlled rate, to be graded and sorted.”  My first job at the mill was working on this line.  It is a massive conveyor belt where freshly cut pieces of lumber spill out by the thousands to be sorted and stacked.  On either side of the conveyor, workers are spaced about 20 feet apart, sixteen workers in total.  Each man (it was strictly a male domain back then) was responsible for pulling different lengths and grades of lumber off of the fast moving conveyor belt and stacking them in neat piles to be picked up by a fork lift.

Sounds simple enough. The good news is that I knew what a 2×4 was before starting my career in the forestry business. The bad news is that I didn’t recognize any of the other million pieces spewing out of the giant maw of the equipment at the head of the belt.

Did I mention the chemicals in a sawmill? Virtually all of the wood goes through a chemical bath as part of the process.  When you work on the green chain, you are issued a heavy leather apron and matching gloves.  A lovely ensemble.  At the end of a ten hour shift, you can feel the poison oozing through your pores.  You can actually taste it.  Luckily, the Colony pub was a mere five minute walk from the mill and the taste of chemicals could quickly be eradicated with a few cold draft.

I’m virtually certain that the mill preys on new workers, especially those with university degrees. There is inherent sadism when they take a rookie and put him at the very head of the green chain.  I was given my position and told that I would be responsible for two grades and length of lumber.  After shift changeover, the conveyor belt started up.  Like a speeding, out of control locomotive, a gazillion pieces of wet, smelly lumber charged down the conveyor belt.  It took about 14 seconds to overwhelm me.

Do you remember the definition of a green chain? There was some mention of “controlled rate”. What they should have said was “out of control rate”.

The green chain does not lie, and exposes weaknesses quickly and mercilessly. When everything is firing on all cylinders, every man on “the chain” pulls out his pieces and neatly stacks them.  There shouldn’t be any wood left at the end of the belt.  Unless you didn’t read “Green Chain for Dummies”.  If everyone doesn’t do their job, the unclaimed lumber piles up on the ground and it doesn’t take anytime at all to identify the culprit.

I’m not sure if it was the combination of the screeching of the giant saws a hundred yards away and the near nauseating smell of the chemicals, but I quickly fell behind as “my” pieces of wood drifted down the conveyor belt and piled up in a heap at the far end.

The foreman only shows up every hour or so. It didn’t take him too long to realize that I needed some schooling.  But long before this, a fellow worker did his level best to set me straight.  He had worked on the green chain for nearly 40 years!  Above the din, he squawked at me and flailed with his arms as if warning me of an impending missile strike.  I couldn’t understand anything he did or said.  After half an hour, I was fully prepared to throttle him before handing in my resignation.

I staggered into the coffee room amid snickers from my fellow workers. They quickly found out that I was a university grad, which compounded the abuse.  One guy, obviously feeling a small tinge of pity, gave me words of encouragement.  He told me that the pub was open until 1:00 in the morning.

I also discovered that the arm flailing, screaming banshee working beside me was a poor soul who was deaf and mute.

I survived the first shift and many more.

And even got a promotion.

 

 

Posted on September 20, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

I could see the golf course from “The West Wing”

 

 

I was recently invited to attend a gathering of business colleagues on Prince Edward Island. As I am on the cusp of retirement ( in 30 years or so), I don’t attend many of these functions any more.  My days of late nights and many drinks are well behind me.  I love the expression one of my friends , who gave up drinking, uses: “I reached my quota”.  The event, of course, included golf.  Sad to say, I used up all my good shots many moons ago.  And I have listened to one too many speakers drone on at conferences.  You know that feeling, like your head is in a vise.

So why exactly did I agree to go? Because some very nice people invited me to join my business partners in a discussion on succession planning.  We think we’ve done a pretty good job with our strategy.  Luckily most of the attendees haven’t given up drinking.  They made need a few after we’re through with them. Or before.

One of my business partners  picked me up on one of the more dreary mornings of the summer. Yes, it’s technically still summer. It poured rain and it was foggy as we approached the ferry terminal at Caribou.  “Do you think we will get on?” he quipped.  I peered through the mist as we passed the booth that normally houses someone directing you to the proper lane.  I had to squint, as failing eyesight is one of the many joys of aging.

About a 9 iron away, I saw three cars in a lineup. Yes, our chances were excellent that we would get on the early boat.

We had a smooth passage and meandered slowly through hill and dale behind two trucks hauling horses. Despite the threat of road rage from Shane, we arrived in one piece at Brudenell.

We had lunch with several other guests. Respectfully, the boys all waited until 12:02 before having their first drink of the day.  It certainly wouldn’t be their last.  I was quite impressed that Shane chose a heart healthy lunch of dark rum and coke and fiery chicken wings.  I guess when you’ve had your gall bladder removed, anything goes.

Despite my chronically ailing back, I decided to golf. I had the pleasure of sharing a cart with Steve.  Shane and Paul rounded out the foursome.  The weather had settled down.  In fact, it was unseasonably warm during the early afternoon.  Rory McIlroy needn’t be threatened by the calibre of golf in this group, despite some impressive shots off an illegal driver that Shane was using.  At one point I offered a piece of advice to Paul, who seemed to be fighting a losing battle with the bunkers.  He successfully extricated himself from the sand trap.  That’s the good news.  The bad news is that the ball was last seen flying over Montague.

A combination of my sore back, the return of the driving rain and my less than stellar golf prowess convinced me that the hot tub was the place to be. I packed in in after nine holes, the farthest point from the clubhouse at Dundarave.  Mercifully, a course marshal helped me to find my way back to civilization.  When he was certain that I wouldn’t get lost, he cut the tether and I was on my own.  I clutched my new Blackberry Q5 and was about to hit “maps” when the clubhouse appeared off in the distance.

I went to the front desk to check in. “Mr. MacDonald, here is your room key. You will be in the West Wing.”

I have done my fair share of travelling over the years and have stayed at some pretty fancy addresses. To demonstrate how sophisticated and urbane I am, I even know exactly where Steve’s house is in Spryfield.  My daughter lives right around the corner.  He admitted that his choice of neighborhood included walking distance to both the liquor store and McDonald’s.

I was impressed that the conference organizer, Cathy,  would bestow an honor like this upon me by choosing me for this prestigious address at the hotel. I wondered if champagne and chocolates would be waiting for me in my room.  It’s nice when people respect their elders and offer them the very best in accommodations.

Have you ever tried to haul a trolley through a door that doesn’t open automatically, carrying enough baggage to make a Himalayan voyage seem like a trip to the cottage? I quickly discovered that to get to the West Wing, you had to go through the hotel, back out into the rain and across a creaking deck to another set of doors that don’t open automatically.

I approached the door with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation, made a successful entry and headed to the royal suite.

I almost expected a chorus of trumpeters to greet me.

The TV didn’t work and a light bulb was burnt out. Instead of dialing up the maître de, I called maintenance.

And there wasn’t any chocolate or champagne. Just a few bags of chips.

I thought about asking for a cabin, but realized that this was a very bad idea as it was likely that the young bucks in the group would be there, gearing up for the night ahead.

I planned to go for a long soak in the hot tub but that would have required taking the elevator, exiting the building and crossing the groaning planks one more time … in the rain.

On second thought, a hot shower will do just fine.