Just in case my union and what few companies survive here on the dope growing coast of Canada actually manage to agree on a contract soon that does not continue to see the men of the unforgiving woods and dreary, dangerous sawmills treated the way the Chinese treat their coal miners I pulled my winter boots out from under a thick layer of dog fur and gave them a polish today.
After I dusted the dry layer of sawdust off them that I had neglected to do in the spring I worked half a can of black boot polish into the stiff, thick Canadian leather. Then I soaked them in boot oil and let them sit on the back garden picnic table in the warm sun all day while the Hammer and I strolled along the river bank and enjoyed a pub lunch. There is not a lot of action on the water with the sawmills closed up. The only thing we saw moving were people trying to snag dinner in the filthy river.
At lunch I overheard two farmers encapsulate what Canadians generally think about the ballyhoo over the state of the environment when they are out of earshot of Al Gore. "Fucking green bullshit."
When we got home from our exercize I opened a bottle of Harp and sat down with my warm, oily boots at the worn cedar table. Pretty soon I got up and opened myself another Harp and thought about the things a man thinks about when he has been on strike for just about three months.
I do not want to go back. But go back I will. The sawmill is my mother, fucker.