Shivering June
Alas, after the constant barrage of rocks in our wake, we have been given cream; sweet dirty mounds smooth and supple as butter. Yet the new treat has come with a price. Cold, finger-numbing weather to hinder our sanity as we pound the endless sea of mounds. Bearing a bomber cap and a waxed cotton aussie jacket, I gaze into the stew of puffy grey clouds stirring the air. Waves of blue flagging tape aimlessly flail about like a flock of shiny birds, and the sticky mud collects on the spade with each spear toss into the mounds, what once was cream is now a thick icy sludge of mud and hail pellets. Thunder slams the earth and I hear the enthusiastic cries of planters off in the distance, sharing their grief for the stormy solace. And then, the horn is honked to round up the shivering rookies and vets, and we all crowd in the 'scurge (the Excursion) muddied from the hard day's work, happy to hear the sound of music and heated air conditioning.
Money has started to finally accumulate, and yet it is the least of my concerns. Guitars, campfires, and sleeping bags fill the void that planting all day digs in your mind. The night before the day off, wax tree boxes are stacked in a chimney formation on the fire, exploding into a wall of flame as the inebriated folk howl in awe and warmth. Just inside the cook shack, Cody, a man from PEI named Andy, Dennis, and a couple other folk whom I have forgotten their names, all jam frantically with four guitars and my dirty hands pummeling the djembe. Rocky, the Kenyan camp boy sings in rhythmic hymns "BAG UP BAG UP BAG UP - STRRRRETCH!", and the crowd goes buck-wild.
The morning settles in, I'm snug as lanky hotdog in a slightly damp bun, and I rub my eyes to wash away the remnants of dirt and strange dreams of myself meeting Steven Spielberg and announcing to him my utter dissapointment and distaste in his latest edition of the Indiana Jones saga. Nonetheless, I get up, not knowing the time (as my alarm clock has gone AWOL), and I hit up the Husky gas and convenience station for a muffin/coffee combo brekky. The sun shines, the hacky sacks start to fly, and life is comfortable once again.
Only two shifts remain in this southern BC planting adventure, and the long slog of a Greyhound trip seems only like yesterday. The summer contract seems to be non existent at this point, so I plan on venturing northbound and joining a different company and a different crew, with Summit Reforestation, to add to the epilogue of this grueling financial journey. Luckily, I know the crew boss - he is in my film program, so I should be able to settle in nicely.
A vacation may be in order in the next few weeks, to satiate my hunger for laziness, sand, and possibly surfing in either Penticton or Vancouver.. but I will have to pound another shift to make it happen. I finally broke the 2k mark again, and I'm attempting to manage a consistent $300 or more bones a day, so things are looking up. But the work is tiresome.. very very tiresome.
With all the free time in my head during the day, I've been sifting through songs saved through memory, imagining new songs, films, and scenarios at home. I await the third year of school, with a new home, new friends, and new experiences. In the meantime, all I gotta do is shut up and plant.
Until next time,
P'James
Money has started to finally accumulate, and yet it is the least of my concerns. Guitars, campfires, and sleeping bags fill the void that planting all day digs in your mind. The night before the day off, wax tree boxes are stacked in a chimney formation on the fire, exploding into a wall of flame as the inebriated folk howl in awe and warmth. Just inside the cook shack, Cody, a man from PEI named Andy, Dennis, and a couple other folk whom I have forgotten their names, all jam frantically with four guitars and my dirty hands pummeling the djembe. Rocky, the Kenyan camp boy sings in rhythmic hymns "BAG UP BAG UP BAG UP - STRRRRETCH!", and the crowd goes buck-wild.
The morning settles in, I'm snug as lanky hotdog in a slightly damp bun, and I rub my eyes to wash away the remnants of dirt and strange dreams of myself meeting Steven Spielberg and announcing to him my utter dissapointment and distaste in his latest edition of the Indiana Jones saga. Nonetheless, I get up, not knowing the time (as my alarm clock has gone AWOL), and I hit up the Husky gas and convenience station for a muffin/coffee combo brekky. The sun shines, the hacky sacks start to fly, and life is comfortable once again.
Only two shifts remain in this southern BC planting adventure, and the long slog of a Greyhound trip seems only like yesterday. The summer contract seems to be non existent at this point, so I plan on venturing northbound and joining a different company and a different crew, with Summit Reforestation, to add to the epilogue of this grueling financial journey. Luckily, I know the crew boss - he is in my film program, so I should be able to settle in nicely.
A vacation may be in order in the next few weeks, to satiate my hunger for laziness, sand, and possibly surfing in either Penticton or Vancouver.. but I will have to pound another shift to make it happen. I finally broke the 2k mark again, and I'm attempting to manage a consistent $300 or more bones a day, so things are looking up. But the work is tiresome.. very very tiresome.
With all the free time in my head during the day, I've been sifting through songs saved through memory, imagining new songs, films, and scenarios at home. I await the third year of school, with a new home, new friends, and new experiences. In the meantime, all I gotta do is shut up and plant.
Until next time,
P'James
posted by J-kash at 12:14 PM
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