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Living this odd life has its moments. A friend and coworker of mine recently sent an e-mail, announcing that after being on a waiting list for five years, his turn had come up to buy used telephone poles from his REA electric provider (he lives in the woods like me). He asked if anyone else was interested. I suppose most people have no need for used telephone poles, but I have yet to finish repairs to the boat house that was damaged in a wind storm when a big oak tree fell on it early last summer. I responded that I could use four, and everyone else declined, so it was just he and me who left from work to drive to the co-op yard on a lovely, sunny Friday afternoon. When we enquired at the office, two men, one of whom made it clear he was in charge, led us out to the stack of used poles. The yard man told us to choose the ones we wanted, so I found some long ones that were still solid after untold years in service holding up electrical wires somewhere, thanks to the magical preserving properties of creosote. The man in charge dragged the poles out of the stack with a forklift and chain, all the while making chit chat, mostly talking to my friend, referring to me indirectly as "this lady". In-charge-man didn't miss a beat when I measured 30 feet, cranked up the chain saw, and whacked off the top end of each pole. I guess he's been around "working girls" before. He noticed my approving look as he deftly handled the awkward poles with the forklift, rolling them gently off the end of the forks with minimal effort, in perfect position on the trailer. Spurred on by this admiration of his skill, the in-charge guy talked more directly to me, making it clear that he considered himself something of a prize, causing me to think briefly of a peacock sporting his plumage. Having a pretty good grasp on the basic principles of physics, I figured that my 16-foot flatbed trailer should handle poles 30 feet long OK, especially if the heavier butt end was at the front of the trailer, and the smaller end was dangling out the back. Well, there is dangling, and then there is dangling. With fourteen feet of pole hanging off the end, it looked pretty strange. We talked about the legality of hauling such a load, in spite of the red flag they tied on. I told them I would sweet-talk my way through it as best I could if I were stopped, and they agreed this was a reasonable approach, though they felt compelled to warn me of certain local officers they knew who wouldn't easily be charmed. We finally paid the friendly office girl inside, who seemed to welcome the interruption to the filing she was doing (nail, that is), and I set off on the 40-mile trip home. My eyeball estimate of the weight distribution along the length of the poles was off a little, so the trailer was pretty back-heavy, lifting the rear end of the Pathfinder up on the springs a bit. I quickly found that my top speed would be 30 mph, since anything more would start the awkward rig fish-tailing. Fortunately, no law enforcement types passed by, and I had no problems on my slow drive home on the two-lane road. With windows and sun-roof open, and music turned up loud, I soaked in the beauty of the spring foliage in the sunshine of a perfect day. Next morning, we rounded up a small family crew and headed out at 7 AM to haul the poles another 30 miles to the lake, with M following me as an escort with her flashers on. We passed a sheriff's deputy waiting at a side street as we went through town, and he gave us the hairy eyeball, but thankfully he turned the other way, toward the donut shop, and let us be. We finally arrived at the lake, having held up traffic for long stretches on the hilly, narrow road along the way. Our first attempt to unload was simple; we tied a chain on the dangling end of the poles and fastened the other end around a big post. I thought we might remove the poles by sliding them off as I pulled the trailer forward. Wrong. I did, however, remove some tread from the back tires of the Pathfinder. Telephone poles are heavier than you might think. A new neighbor fresh from the city and enjoying the clean morning air walked up the hill to investigate the commotion, so we immediately enlisted his help. After an hour of working with chains, come-along, and pry bars, we got the poles safely unloaded in their temporary resting place. When we thanked him for his help, the neighbor said he might be less nosy next time he heard a commotion. I never did get to try my charm on any law officers…
4/12/02 |
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Last Update 4/3/04 |