THE LAST WORD
Because of Him… Growing up “rich” inWest Virginia. written and photographed by mary marantz
its hardest hits—my dad is still reminding the world exactly why loggers have been deemed essential. He is the last of his kind, a living legend in his own time. Fifty-two years into answering the siren call of the West Virginia woods, he’s still the first to show up hurt, show up sick, get up early, stay out late—whatever needs to be done. Because that’s what happens when you really love something. And that’s why, 30 years later, he has once again been nominated as the West Virginia Logger of the Year—the highest honor any West Virginia logger can achieve, for a man who has spent a lifetime earning it. These are the hands of a logger, a working man, a keeper of long hours. These are the hands of my father. And I want the world to know: Every scar, cut, and callous is a badge of honor. Every grease-stained line, a tribute to a hard-earned life. Because these are the hands that built my life. And the work they did was always for me. I am the product of a West Virginia logger. And for my money, I can’t imagine a better legacy to pass on.
settled on, “You know, I think I was just born to do this. It’s who I am. I’m willing to show up hurt, sick, get up early, stay out late—whatever needs to be done. That’s what happens when you really love something”. He talked about having a respect for the trees. About the years that it took to get to that point, and how it’s his job to take down these giants without ruining what they were meant for so they can still fulfill a purpose. He talked about how a hundred-foot tree can hit the ground and splinter into a million toothpicks in a split second if you’re not careful. So he said one of the first things he always teaches new loggers is: “It took 100 years for this tree to get here. The least you can do is take five minutes extra to do the job right.” In the summer of 1990, my father, J.R. Bess, was named the West Virginia Logger of the Year—the highest honor any West Virginia logger can achieve. And the party that ensued was one for the record books. People came from miles around to sit on a front porch where they knew everyone was welcome. They toasted to my Dad, to the kind of man that he is. And they toasted to the little guy finally catching a break. Thirty years later—in the spring of 2020— when the world is in the midst of a global pandemic and the timber industry is taking
mydadwas just 12 years old when he went to work in the woods. Twelve years old when he was given a hard hat and a chain saw and a big metal lunch box and told, “Now you go to work. Forget about college, forget about the future. Your place is here, helping to support this family.” I watched my dad go to work every single day to cut the trees. In the snow, in the rain, in a full-on blizzard with both ankles in casts. He would cut the trees. To build my future. I grew up in a single-wide trailer with dirty floors and a caved-in roof on the top of a mountain on the outskirts of Richwood. And I’m proud of where I come from. This is who I am. Ask me what I stand for and I guarantee you, right here is where the answer lies. I am the daughter of a lumberjack, granddaughter of a coal miner, and, if you cut me, I bleed blue and gold. The other day a friend told me that, because I had gone to Yale University for law school, she had always assumed that I must have been a “legacy” or some sort of trust fund kid. That my family must have been really wealthy. And I thought to myself: not wealthy, but rich. I asked Dad once what his Why was: “Why do you do what you do?” He thought about it for a long time— started and stopped again. And then finally
Catch Marantz's new book— Dirt —due on shelves in September at a bookstore near you.
96 wvl • summer 2020
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