Another in a series by me. For other chapters see below
“What clipper did I use last time? Number three, or number four?”
I had procrastinated long enough. Looking like a modern day Einstein, my hair scrambled madly off in all directions, a sort of Labradoodle look with a dry, scratchy beard attached. It was definitely time for a haircut and a beard trim. So off to the, hmm . . . not sure what they are called now — Barber? Men’s hair stylist? Coiffurist? I just call the shop “Barb’s” named for, yo guessed it, Barb.
“Hell if I know. Was I supposed to remember this? You’re the professional; don’t you write these things down?” I sighed.
“You don’t pay me enough.”
“Which reminds me, your price goes up every time I come in. What’s going on?”
“Life is expensive minister. My costs rise just like your prayers; at the same rate I suppose.”
“I could go somewhere else.”
“Right, off you go” as she pulls the silky cover off my lap. “As they say on the green airline: ‘We know there are other options out there; thanks for choosing us.’ You know as well as I do that I am your best option unless you go up to the big city. I don’t think you want a perm from the girls at the beauty parlor, do you?”
“Is this a come-on?”
“In your dreams.”
She was right. I had been coming to Barb for a year now. She always gives me a great cut and trim. The coffee is on and it tastes okay. Her conversation is typically punchy, witty, and well informed. Depending on the day, her clientele has stories to tell and opinions to offer. Controversy is no stranger to her shop. As a minister still new to this small town, Barb’s Barber Shop is a great place for gossip and grandiosity.
“Earn your money please. I don’t want to come back in just two weeks (nothing personal mind you).”
“No offense taken. So number three then.”
She rustles about, finding her conditioner, her razor with its plastic head, and a comb. I looked at my shaggy image in the mirror trying to calculate how much I spend on my hair each year. I don’t want to waste money on non-essentials. Looking again in the mirror, this cut and trim is, indeed, essential.
“So what’s new, I asked?”
“Same old, same old.”
“All the people who trapse through here each month, and that’s the best you can do?”
“Folks are getting testy about the ‘war in the woods’.”
“What, pray tell, is the war in the woods?”
“It’s loggers versus environmentalists. Eyes open minister; is your head still in the sand?”
“That would mess up my hair. So what’s going on?”
“A lot of people are upset about the increase in logging of old growth forests. Big trees; old trees; some a century old; great swaths of trees and forest up past Jingle Beach, all the way from the river to the top of the mountain, trees felled, dragged out of the bush on skidders, smashing everything in the way.”
“We’ve always logged forests; what’s the problem now?”
“Environmentalists, ‘tree huggers,’ say ForestWorks is taking too many trees. They’re ripping out the heart of our forests so they can never grow back. It takes fifty to a hundred years to re-grow our forests.”
“They may have a point, I guess. I still see lots of trees around here though. Just look out your window. And the mill needs trees for lumber; we are a resource industry town after all. Fishing alone won’t keep us fed and watered.”
“Ya, I know: Jobs, jobs, jobs. Good paying jobs. We need ‘em.”
“Can’t both these groups sit down and work something out? What about quotas limiting what can be taken and when? What about selective harvesting and keeping some areas out of bounds for cultivation?”
“Well no one’s asking me, or you for that matter.”
“Not me either. I do think however that we should find out what’s possible, what might help to reduce tension if what you say is right.”
As the bell tinkled, almost on cue, my thoughtful, if sometimes a bit ponderous, church member, Milton, walked through the front door.
“Hey friends, lovely day out today.”
“Sure is” I echoed.
“Hey minister, time for a shear it seems.”
“Hey Milton, what you know about this war in the woods — environmentalists jostling with loggers? I asked.
“Not much, but there’s a meeting at the community hall tomorrow night. I’m going. Are you?”
“Didn’t know about it till now but I think I will. I mean, I should go.”
“Fair warning; it could get heated; emotional stuff for sure. A lot of logging families are proud of what they’ve done here over the years. They’ve worked hard to make a living, build homes, raise families, and put the kids through school. They feel attacked by spandex-wearing city-slicker tree huggers.”
“Spandex?”
“You know, yoga types.”
Barb snorted. “They don’t come in here is all I know. I could use the business.”
“C’mon Barb, how would you look in yoga pants?” I poked.
“How ‘bout you? Keep your head still please. These scissors are sharp, remember?”
Suddenly, the front door burst open knocking the bell off its perch. Another church member, Don, ran in, out of breath, and agitated.
“I need to use your phone. Right now.”
“You do love a grand entrance Don” quipped Barb. “It’s on the counter in front of you; the black thing with a dial and a cord attached.”
“There’s a fire over by the grocery store.”
“What do you mean, a fire?” I enquired.
Almost shouting, “someone set the phone booth on fire.”
“I did warn you; tempers are rising” Milton added.
“Honestly Milton, you are such a conspiracy theorist” Barb snorted.
“Never say never, even here. But to be clear, I know nothing about this. Phone booths don’t generally catch fire; many public phones don’t even work these days.”
Don quickly dialed 911 asking for fire and police. Quickly redirected to a local emergency coordinator his responses were nervous and curt.
“Yes, still on fire. . . Black smoke and some flame . . . No, no injuries that I could see . . . Seems contained to the phone booth; hasn’t spread further . . . Don Arnold; 1341 Western Road . . . On their way . . . Oh, I hear something now . . .”
Sirens blazing, several vehicles screeched by. Police and fire. Ambulance. We poured out of Barb’s to join a gathering crowd of about twenty onlookers.
“These things don’t happen here; or at least, not recently,” someone mused.
Some years ago there was a strike at the mill that stirred folks up; that was, however, a long time ago.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what is going on here?” (There’s a Catholic, or an Irish fisherman in every crowd it seems.)
“Who would do such a thing? Doesn’t look like an accident to me.”
Thankfully the fire crew got things under control, reducing the flames to a smolder while limiting its spread. I noticed a couple of fire fighters studying the booth carefully, poking around the corners looking for. I guess, any signs of arson.
Wanting to get back to work and finish her day, Barb rounded up her customers once more. “Okay boys, the clock’s ticking; let’s finish what we started.”
Not wanting to miss any more action, we reluctantly made our way across the street back to Barb’s. On the way back, Ronni, a woman I had previously met at choir practice called me aside. I didn’t know her well but I noticed her at a choir rehearsal and I had planned to ask her out for coffee sometime.
She seemed nervous. “Minister, might I have a word with you please?”
“Gotta be quick as Barb needs to finish my cut. Bit Mohawk-y right now don’t you think?”
“Sure . . . Well, I think you need to know that this fire looks rather suspicious. On my way to the pharmacy I saw someone running past the library. Fast, unusually fast.”
“Hmm . . . “
“My hunch is that it was intentionally set; but I don’t know by whom.”
“Did you recognize who it was?”
“No; I don’t think so.”
“Who would burn down a phone booth? I know rates are high, but arson?”
“I’m thinking about the war in the woods.”
“Am I the only one who doesn’t know about this so-called war? I know I’m new here, but really. I can’t see environmentalists burning down phone booths. Nor loggers.”
“All I am saying is that this issue strikes all kinds of people here, old timers and new folks, in different ways. It’s regular table talk in our family, and not happily so. People are worried and angry. There’s a meeting . . .”
- “I know, tomorrow night. I am going to go. Want to go together?”
“Sure, why not. But you need to know. I come from a long line of loggers and fishers. I don’t always agree with each other however. We can’t keep raping the hills and valleys as we have in the past.”
“Good to know. So meet at the church at six-thirty?”
“Sure, see you then.”
Returning to Barb’s to complete what must be done I had a small spring in my step. I was quickly learning “who was who” in our little town, and in my new church. Living and working here didn’t feel like “home” yet; but for better or for worse, I was settling in well; very well.
OTHER CHAPTERS IN THE SERIES
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