When I operate my chainsaw, I try to be professional, but suspect that I am still an amateur. Oddly enough, my big Stihl chainsaw has a sticker right on it that says it is a professional chainsaw, and represents an extreme hazard of kickback maiming and death. It warns me that I better know and understand it before I use it, and even suggests that it may be too much saw for the job, and wouldn’t I be better off using another wussier chainsaw.
(If somebody is curious to know the exact wording of the sticker, I’ll go and get it sometime.)
Now I’m a city guy that moved to the country, and I really don’t know what I’m doing.
Every time I pick up that chainsaw to do a job that needs doing, I have severe misgivings. It is so powerful that when you hit the throttle it torques in midair. Every time I put the chainsaw down after a job, I feel like I’ve gotten away with something.
As an amateur, I try to be extremely careful, and to keep it as simple as possible, but living here requires that I use it quite often in a manner best left to somebody that actually knows what he is doing.
Every time that I pick that thing up, I know that I am exceeding the limits of my skill and expertise, and rolling the dice.
Nobody is making me do it. It’s an informed decision, and the life I’m risking is my own.
One of the reasons that we are selling this farm is that as a parent I would like to be around, and I would rather not be doing these kind of things anymore.
When I was 16 to about 26 I was immortal. I was sure that nothing could hurt me, and I could handle every single situation. Now, in my midthirties I find that I’m not half the person I used to be and that there are all kinds of situations that I can’t handle and dangers that will promptly extinguish my existence If I expose myself to them.
Now there are some things at which I am professional. My father was and still is a professional marksman. He is what is known as a perfect shot, and so am I.
The difference between us is that my father is an unusually gifted marksman while I am somewhat less than average.
However one of the greatest lessons my father ever taught me was by indoctrinating me with a professional level of riflery training.
He showed me exactly how perfection is achieved.
My father is capable of never missing a shot. He has attained perfection in this regard.
On one of my father’s rifles, I’ll use his favorite, the one he taught me on, a Tikka .22 Hornet, he will never miss.
I have never seen him miss, and as a former Recon Marine Sniper, and a decorated combat veteran I am willing to take his word on this within the limits that he has defined it.
As part of my father’s training as a Sniper he spent 8 hours a day for several weeks strapped tightly into a rifle in a position of “bone on bone.” The idea is that when he is strapped in there is no tissue or muscle involved, the rifle is resting as completely as possible within a cradle of solid immovable bone. As he looks through the scope the only movement that occurs is a slight pulsing of his heartbeat.
My father knows that weapon the way a person knows a piece of their anatomy. He maintains it, he cleans it, he knows it inside and out, and he keeps it in perfect working order.
While handling it he is anal retentive about care and technique, and he protects it in a way that any parent would be proud to emulate with their child. He ensures that it is not jarred or disturbed or otherwise knocked out of its precise working condition, and when not in his posession it is carefully stored to protect it.
The scope is zeroed in at 200 yards, and it is marked at that point on the dials of the scope.
He keeps a book on this rifle. Every time he shoots it, he begins with a “cold barrel shot,” which confirms that the rifle is still true and precise in its settings and adjustments.
Within the book is the history of every cold barrel shot that my father has ever taken with this rifle. There are notes on windage, range, altitude, inclination, different types of ammo, different lots of the same type of ammo, notes on his handloads etc.
Once my father has taken the cold barrel shot, he is perfect within his limitations and that of his rifle and ammo. They are all known quantities with defined and tested limits.
For example, at x yardage, and y windage and a stationary target of Z size, my father is capable of guaranteeing a hit and making good on that guarrantee every single time.
Within the extremely rigid and defined confines of his and his equiptments limitations, he is perfect.
The odd thing is that my father puts a lot less effort and time into his rifles and riflery than a lot of gun nuts. He knows exactly what he is doing, and he is incredibly efficient while doing it. In short, he is a professional. He completely understands and works within his limitations.
It is, to my mind, a beautiful thing.
This is not to say that my father can make every shot. But, as a professional my father can make certain guarrantees in certain circumstances.
As a professional my father is cognizant of his limits.
Now, if my father attempts a shot outside of the limits of his perfection, while he may not be able to guarrantee success, he knows exactly what he is doing and the risk of failure that he is taking.
Because of his professionalism even when my father attempts to step outside of the limits of his perfection he has a great chance of success.
My father you see, knows what the boundaries are, and has made the effort to explore them and discern them. He does not step unknowingly into alien territory.
Now an amateur with a gun cannot tell you with certainty anything. He can take a shot and literally anything can happen. There is no zone of perfection there are no discened limitations and he has no idea what the boundaries are. The amateur figures that his gun is in working order and the scope is accurate and makes a guess, sometimes a damn well educated guess before he pulls the trigger. But the truth is it is all alien territory to this amateur.
Both my father and that amateur may make the exact same shot , side by side, and be succesful The difference is my father knew. The amateur did not.
On the other hand, when I pick up my chainsaw I do not know what my limitations are. I do not know when I have crossed that boundary of surety. I can make no guarrantees at all. In short, I am a fool, and if and when something happens to me, I will have only myself to blame for my own stupidity in getting in over my head. I am an amateur. I lack the expertise to know when I’m being stupid, to know when I am endangering myself. I know some things, but not enough.
Now, as a parent it is not possible for me to work within the limits of my perfection. There are places and there are circumstances where I can make assurances and guarrantees and there are places where I cannot.
But, as a professional (which I beleive and sincerely hope that I am,) I have made educated choices, and eliminated foolhardy risks so that my chances of success are as high as they can be within my limits, which are known, and I don’t exceed them lightly.
This lady who left her kids in the car to die was an amateur. She literally did not know what she was doing. She did not know what her limits were, and she went sailing across her boundaries in blind ignorance.
Now it is ok for me to be an amateur with my chainsaw, because I am the one who will pay the price for my folly.
But being a parent means that your child pays the price. To be a good parent, one must be a professional. Yes, a parent will have to take risks. Yes, a parent will have to work outside the limitations of perfection. But a parent better damn know what they are, and a parent better take a professional attitude towards discerning, knowing and limiting risks before the fact. A parent better be capable of evaluating their own behavior, and the risks it entails. If they do not not only are they amateur, they are negligent.
