“You know…they make good saws, too.”
Darrell punctuated his assessment of Sam’s Stihl chainsaw by spitting on the ground, a smirk playing about the left corner of his mouth.
Sam lowered the saw he’d been trying to start and shot mock daggers at Darrell from under the brim of his baseball cap before glancing over at me and explaining: “Darrell’s a Husqy man.” (A pause.) “But I let him work for me anyways,” Sam finished with a smirk of his own.
And the stories started flying…
“Remember that old Johnson your daddy left you?” Darrell asked, chortling.
“Aw, maaannn…” Sam warmed to the tale. “That thing weighed ’bout a hunnert pounds. Ran great, if you was standing on the porch.”
“Wasn’t worth much in the woods, though,” Darrell added wryly.
“Naw,” Sam said, turning to address me. “That ol’ Johnson wouldn’t start once you left the house. It was like it got skeert or somethin’.”
The two cackled with such delight at their own joke that I found myself guffawing — then giggling for days afterwards. This is the way it went with these two: nearly constant banter as they worked, sometimes stalling them into storytelling for “a spell” before they continued on with the cutting and clearing and grading.
I loved listening to them. I loved the rhythm of it all.