A “widowmaker,” I learned last night, is a term in forestry for a broken-off limb that hangs in a tree that’s about to fall or be cut down; according to the internetz, it’s also called a “fool killer,” which might be an even better term for the log that perched precariously above us during the forest revel component of the evening’s cycle revelry experience.
And fortunately, perhaps because of the old saw (no pun intended) that “the Lord looks out for babies and fools,” no significant other of any of the assembled fools was turned into a widow (or widower as the case may be) by the evil-looking tree trunk with the malicious chipmunk-face that was aimed like a bullet from above just outside the fire’s warmth but certainly right where it might have come crashing down on someone parking their bike or fetching a glove from their pannier.
Donovan (or was it Fancy Fred?) rightly pointed out that if it did fall, it would fall unpredictably, so surely discretion (something usually in short supply on Thursday nights) was the better part of valor for once, and no one, surprisingly, tried to dislodge the mighty branch with chucked rocks, hurled sticks, or even thankfully, a bottle rocket.
It seemed appropriate, somehow, to be in such proximity to imminent disaster, a situation that feels more and more familiar these days globally, and is, of course, a commonplace local state of affairs for anyone who’s ever followed a line of blinking taillights into the woods while under the influence of some, and soon to be more, of one’s favorite mood-altering adulterants.
Shining a light up into the canopy, you could see the rocking motion of the limb that held the widowmaker in place; a strong gust of wind was all that was needed to launch it earthwards.
And yet somehow, catastrophe was avoided (or perhaps merely postponed), but in any case, I’ll quite happily take it, thank you, my Lord.
And fortunately, perhaps because of the old saw (no pun intended) that “the Lord looks out for babies and fools,” no significant other of any of the assembled fools was turned into a widow (or widower as the case may be) by the evil-looking tree trunk with the malicious chipmunk-face that was aimed like a bullet from above just outside the fire’s warmth but certainly right where it might have come crashing down on someone parking their bike or fetching a glove from their pannier.
Donovan (or was it Fancy Fred?) rightly pointed out that if it did fall, it would fall unpredictably, so surely discretion (something usually in short supply on Thursday nights) was the better part of valor for once, and no one, surprisingly, tried to dislodge the mighty branch with chucked rocks, hurled sticks, or even thankfully, a bottle rocket.
It seemed appropriate, somehow, to be in such proximity to imminent disaster, a situation that feels more and more familiar these days globally, and is, of course, a commonplace local state of affairs for anyone who’s ever followed a line of blinking taillights into the woods while under the influence of some, and soon to be more, of one’s favorite mood-altering adulterants.
Shining a light up into the canopy, you could see the rocking motion of the limb that held the widowmaker in place; a strong gust of wind was all that was needed to launch it earthwards.
And yet somehow, catastrophe was avoided (or perhaps merely postponed), but in any case, I’ll quite happily take it, thank you, my Lord.
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