The Wife of a Sawmill Specialist

It’s hard being a single mum and the wife of a sawmill specialist!


Yes, I DO have a husband – an awesome man in Chris Browne that carries more than a fair share of the load. But when I send him overseas to sawmill shows, that leaves me trying to be two-people-at-once.

So here I am, yet again working on an itinerary for Chris who is not only my husband but our chief sawmill specialist. He is off to Africa to unload a container, attend WoodEX for Africa, train our new agent, Harris Sawing Equipment cc and then on to Europe for some demo days with our UK agent, LogLogic. My support man will be away for the good side of a month.

So first, there is work. An owner asking how to sort some electricalthingymajiggy on the ASM that’s blowing a fuse…fuse? Where? Spaghettiefreakenjunction to me…

Or better yet, “I’ve got a hydraulic mill from 19…(ie before the ice age), and I’m rebuilding the hydraulic hosing system, can you email me a manual with oil pressures please?” Definitely the job for a sawmill specialist!

Or just the latest, “My blade has cracked all over the place, here’s some pics.” FREAKIN WHAT? STOP USING IT!! SEND IT TO ME QUICK!!@*!@%#!! …receives parcel…tearing it open with everyone huddled around…what??? – it’s simply SCRATCHES from another blade’s tips rubbing!!! Ok that was the heart attack of the New Year…dear husband, sawmill specialist extraordinaire, please don’t ever leave me!!

Then there is the farm. Why is it that animals just know? The time the sheep decide to push that latch just a weeny bit harder and end up…imagine this – city slickers trying to pet a rambunctious ram in peak hour traffic!! Or mumma pig decides to dig out a rat hole and find some rat poison (did you know in Europe they use rat poison for the eradication of feral hogs?). Or the bread-pickup contract falls over and we have no feed for 200+ animals…

What about the Holiday homes…Housekeeper can’t find the keys yet again…another guest has taken them home, locked up, that was the ‘spare’ pair already, place a mess, next lot due in 3pm, and it’s a SUNDAY.

Lastly the teens. Where do I start? Two of my own, their two BFF cling-ons, and the two boarders. Ever tried to herd Aria and Javier Browne sleeping cats?? Impossible to stir from their stuck-behind-the-iphone position, and when you succeed you are blessed with grumpy-arsed, drag-lipped, brain-dead bodies stumbling in the opposite direction of whatever chore they were just given full instruction on how to do. An hour later – “Did you get the eggs?”. From behind the phone – “No”. “Why not??”. “You never told me to.” And somehow this memory melts into oblivion when they randomly wrap their arms around you mumbling, “I love you, you are the best mummy ever…”

At least I have consistency in my running buddies who keep us sane by pretending to listen to each other’s life problems while secretly trying to beat someone up the hill. The resulting super shot of happy-drug endorphins keeps me going for the rest of the week…

“Chris, can you pop into Duty Free on the way home and find me a new GPS watch with trackability, LED, heart rate monitor, blood-oxygen levels, and with 16+ hour battery life please?”

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