They had a system: One chipper/shredder chewed up the logs, stumps, limbs and twigs — whole trees, except in parts — into chunks that were then fed by conveyor into another chipper that made the bits even smaller, suitable for landscaping. Large tractor trailers hauled the mulch away. This went on for several weeks until the first machine broke. They fixed it in a few days and got back to the mulching. The next day the other machine broke down. The day after that both machines were gone. And the next, the first of many large fires were started. A week later and there is still much left to burn, yet there are now several large piles of smouldering ash and soil.
I want to take pictures but they are working. Plus, as I have many photos of various fires, I have begun to wonder if I may have a problem.
I could shoplift instead.
I know I've mentioned the big brush piles before. Without looking at back postings, I remain unsure how much I have told you, which brings up another little worry: Am I repeating myself too much? Comes with age, I know.
He sits at the head of the dinner table, for that's how it's done and tells you all you need to know. A cut glass ashtray to his right holds a lit Salem cigarette that he draws on between bites of food and sips on the third gin martini to his left. The filter is pinched nearly shut from how he holds it. You also already know this took place some time ago.
He has just finished telling a story. One he has told many times, but perhaps not in a while, for this table and house are new to the visitors. It is a forgettable tale, lost in a handful of others you need not be bothered with. The male visitor makes a comment about how we tell these stories we think define us, each time as if it gives new insight. The Head takes a drag and as he exhales, asks, "Who are you talking about?" The visitor apparently is not as slick as he thinks he is.
("You, you pathetic fuck!")
"I was thinking of Grandfather."
Large, rust and gray-colored, smouldering piles.
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