My Million-Dollar Donkey by Ginny; East Page B

lifted heavy logs the back tires would lift right off the ground and the cab would tip. I’d catch my breath, certain the vehicle would land out of kilter, but eventually everything would level out and return with a thud back to a centered position and my heart would start beating again. This was the same feeling I had about our entire life now, a feeling that I was holding my breath, waiting fearfully for things to even out and settle rather than topple.
    When Mark wasn’t on the tractor, he was stalking trees with his chainsaw, or chainsaws plural, I should say. Every day new tools, wood, and machines were added to Mark’s stack of man-toys in our temporary garage. Our old all-purpose chainsaw stood abandoned in the corner now that several new chainsaws had arrived. He’d bought one for debarking trees, as well as one for cutting small limbs. He’d gotten a Paul Bunyan-sized contraption for big jobs, the size and weight of the machine taxing even before it came in contact with wood. The heavy-duty chainsaw seemed his favorite because he could take down trees as easily as I would weed a garden now, which, to be honest, is a fair comparison because I consider weeding rather hard.
    Out with the beetle-infested pines that were as quick to drop at your feet as a fainting goat when you yelled “Boo!” Out with the pesky, spindly trees that took sunlight and nourishment from the hardwoods. Out with the deadwood that made our forest look as ominous as Sleeping Beauty’s castle, engulfed with a hundred years of ignored undergrowth. Out, especially, with those select beautiful wood specimens possessing character and interest because they were destined to be a part of our dream home.
    Most of the time, Mark’s calculations were fine, but occasionally he’d emit a low whistle as a trunk came crashing to the earth in the wrong way. “Um...I guess I cut that one at the wrong angle. You didn’t really want that azalea bush, did you?”
    “No,” I’d whisper, my breath catching in my throat, but as I watched him sidestep catastrophe, I felt compelled to learn at least the basics of driving a tractor just in case I might discover my mate with a tree lodged on his chest someday. If I didn’t, I imagined myself pushing the wrong buttons, squashing him into that messy little speed bump I was so worried about him becoming.
    “I want to learn how to drive the tractor,” I announced, thinking that explaining my request would be too gruesome.
    “Why?” he said with that same wary tone a little boy uses when he suspects someone untrustworthy wants to play with his favorite new toy.
    “For safety purposes.”
    “For safety purposes? Get real. You have trouble backing up the truck.”
    “I’ll only go forward, I promise. Besides, I don’t want to drive the tractor; just learn how all those levers work.”
    “Is this because my hard hat is now a pansy planter?”
    I kicked at the dirt with my toe. “I’m afraid something will happen to you. All these falling trees. The tools. Hillsides. A few months ago, you were gluing sequins to headpieces. Everywhere I look now, I see something that could snuff out the life of my loved ones. I’m uneasy.”
    “And I have to worry about a donkey kicking you in the head.”
    I glanced over at Donkey, standing docilely at the fence, blinking in slow motion. He was too lazy to shake the flies off his nose. Big threat.
    Another tree careened to the earth, causing even the donkey to take a step back.
    Mark slid the brim of his new cowboy hat to the back so he could better see debris filtering through the air, and swatted at a sweat bee with an overly dramatic swoop of his hand.
    “I hate bees,” he said, overreacting in my opinion, considering the bee was the size of a speck and Mark was looking rather Viking-manly-like in his tractor seat.
    The bee flew off, allowing Mark to continue carving away at the land as if he was working on the Thanksgiving turkey. I stood there, the roar of our