What divine providence is it that my master would be named Otto?

Otto Himes is his name. Strong and wide of frame, fair of face and black of hair, hardworking but childlike in spirit.

The world was never meant for men like Otto Himes, men who have so longed for normalcy, yet have received nothing but worse. In cruel irony the world is filled with this archetype of man. Hood River, Oregon is the land of fairytales. A magic floats in the air, waiting for a man of Otto’s mind to walk through it.

Wood, pears and mountain climbing are the choices here. Otto chose the first. Killing a tree is no idle task, but I take up killing as an act of survival. Otto had orcharding as a fair, equal alternative.

He works the Davenport Brothers’ Lumber Company mill three kilometers south of the river in a place called Green Point. His father worked there before the mill had been dismantled and moved from its place in Hood River, and died in a war with Mexico.

Otto is forthcoming with his stories; recall I have known this man for a handful of weeks and already I know of his father’s death.

Otto has agreed to train me in the fields of woodcutting and treefelling (in both I have no foothold whatsoever) for a few hours each day at a small hourly rate. At the pace I’m learning, he says, I’ll be self-sufficient in another few weeks, a month at most.

I can’t say the truth of this figure, either generally or in my personal case, but time will tell.