Ray and Kristi

Ray and Kristi

The yard was full of chain sawed log statuary. I slowed my bike and turned in quickly releasing my feet from the pedals just before the front wheel abruptly stopped in the soft gravel. A man was sitting on a bench next to a pretty woman enjoying the warm sun. She had her head tilted back on his shoulder with her eyes closed, he was watching sunbeams dancing on the wall of their trailer.
Ray is 47, born in ’58. He lives on the Birch Bay-Linden Road just off of I-5.
He got up from the bench.
“Hi. May I look at your sculptures?”
“Go right ahead.”
” He looked back at the bench. “I’m Ray. That’s Kristi.”
“Hi Kristi,” I held up my camera with the question on my face pointing to the sculptures.
“Sure.”
He put his right hand out. The calloused hand and a firm grip were just an inkling of the strength in the thick fingers. “I just put the mirrors around the yard. We were just sitting here watching the sunbeams on the house.”
Kristi was heading for their double wide. “I’ve got to get ready,” she said as she passed. She was as gorgeous and bright as the sunny day.
“Do you have any carvings in Sedro Wooley? You’ve seen all that chainsaw art on the main street there, haven’t you?” I asked.
“I don’t have anything there,” he replied. “I do most of this for myself.”
“You don’t sell it?”
“Oh, yeah, some. I’m working on a couple right now -- A bear for a guy in Stanwood, and an eagle for a bank in Oak Harbor.”
“You have a day job?”
He smiled. It was an easy smile, with sparkle in the eyes. “I’m a mason –a brick layer and tile setter.”
The yard was filled with his art. We naturally fell in step touring the yard, and I began to realize just how many carvings there were. He showed me how the wings could be removed from the flying cat statue. His sense of humor shows: This flying cat, with removable wings, the cool logger with hard-hat and shades, an inverted Jay Leno type face with simian features and Ray Charles sunglasses, and the Siamese twin eagles.
“What are you working on now?” I asked as we rounded the side of the house.
He just pointed to a little 4x8 ft. building, a road-side stand just painted white with brown trim. “It’s for Kristi. She’s the dahlia lady,” he said. “It’s pretty plain. We didn’t want it to compete with the bright colors of the flowers.”
“The place is chock-full,” I said surveying the yard again. The collection of carvings included a snake wrapped around a pole, a pink salmon, a great blue heron, an Indian, a bear, an angel with coarse features, eagle heads, relief carvings of faces, a sun symbol, and a man with a canoe balanced vertically on his head.
Kristi came out of the house with a purse over her shoulder, put a hand on each of his shoulders and kissed him firmly on the lips. “I’m late,” she said as she turned for the truck. She stopped. Her face had the “I forgot something” look. She turned around, came back a few steps, and kissed him again, a carbon copy. She got in the truck and headed for work. Ray was still twinkling his eyes .
“Where do you get logs?” I ask.
“People give them to me. The economy is picking up, so there is construction, clearing of land, and that means: stumps.” He pointed to a cedar log. A friend brought this from a job site, dropped it off yesterday.”
“What is it going to be?” I asked, picking up my bike.
“Didn’t come to me yet,” he replied as I slipped my left foot onto the pedal and put a leg over.
“I loved it. Thanks,” I said.
“Come back any time.” He showed me his easy smile again.
What a pleasant life-outlook he had, with a sense of wonder, and the ability to lose himself in dancing sunbeams holding hands with Kristi, the Dahlia Lady sitting in his private chainsaw sculpture park. He was the kind of guy the women kiss, think about it, about face, and come back and kiss him again.