Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

The tree trunk leaned at a protractor-perfect, forty-five degree angle. Hanging fifteen feet in the air, like a drowning victim on a minute-too-late lifeguard, the forked peak clutched at the adjacent trees. The lower end was embedded in the ground. Dead in terms of sap flowing and pine needles trilling in the winter winds, there was a vengeful ghost hiding in the trunk. The woodsman, his ear tuned by solitude and nature could hear; the silent power of tides, the slow movement of tectonic plates, the god of physics lay in a restless sleep.

Well, the man thought, Although this tree’s body is dead, it’s spirit remains. Time to help it to a final resting place.

He began sawing in the middle of the span; both the center of the tree’s power and its weakest point. Extending his pole, the man grinned and began to push and pull. The wood-fiber was deceptively soft. The bark peeled away in sheets, like horribly inedible peanut brittle. Within a half a score of pushing and pulling, the saw blade reached the depth where it began to bind. Backing off, the weight of the extended saw growing to interfere with his ability to control the path of its teeth, he started a new cut. This one two inches to the right, but angled inwards. Within minutes he had a wedge-shaped gap in the trunk. Again, the tree, tenens in morte, prevented further sawing. He repeated the process, this time several inches above the original cut, angled towards the center.

Sawing, the man thought, is deceptively monotonous work.

Control of the forward and back motion was complicated by the angle of the saw blade. Twist the angle and motion stops, bound to the heart of the tree. Suddenly an image came to mind, a commercial on the electric television. (His woman had insisted that, despite their home being dry, heated and comfortable for the dog, it should connect to the world beyond the forest.) One evening, he watched as people mounted machines and rode. They went nowhere. They strained mightily at the pedals, still they remained in place. They began to sweat, in exhaustion and frustration. Despite the urging of a small woman in the televisors of their equipment, they seemed about to surrender. Finally, when all seemed lost, a blonde, yet frightening, woman, probably the long-awaited champion of the Pelotonians, came forth and rode them to victory.

With grace and deadly efficiency, the woodsman began to move. Like the arpeggio in the opening of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto E Minor OP.64, the woodsman sawed.

And still the tree remained suspended in the air, silent, bark-encrusted pallbearer, refusing to enter the cathedral.

(to be continued…)

Doctrine note: rogers are nature’s bicyclist. If you wanted to observe a ravening pack of animals, roaming the countryside, with a relentless focus on the path to victory,  (that were not scotts), wait until next weekend. If you’re lucky, you’ll come upon weekend bicyclists. By their logos you will know them. (And their fanny packs and helmets and little mirrors on their heads.).  rogers!

https://youtu.be/o1dBg__wsuo