My dad was my right-hand man all summer long. We made quick work of stacking the small logs in the four corners of the building, which served to define the window openings on the first floor. The locking properties of the dovetails defied all logic – logs were piled eight high in the corners with their ends hanging in mid-air. Later, to enclose the window and door openings, the free ends of these logs were nailed in place with vertical 2” x 6” boards called buck plates.
One day, Jim, the contractor, dropped by to see how things were progressing, so I asked him how my dad and I could lift the top logs onto the building without the use of a tractor. With a grunt, he asked, “Are you any good with hydraulics?” Not knowing what he meant, and being a woman of a few words when I am confused, I grunted back something that he took as a, “Yes.” The next morning, I had an ancient, rusty, red boom truck delivered before the crack of dawn (attributable to the fact that it did not have a valid licence plate). Its hidden limitations did not end there: it didn’t always start, it had no brakes and its only working door was on the passenger side of the cab. Nonetheless, Dad and I were tickled pink.
The author wills this old boom truck – a loner from a contractor friend who helped with the project – to fire up one more time.