He closes his
weathered grey eyes
and imagines
the engines roar
the saw turns,
and sawdust flies—
tiny slivers in the air,
forming wooden clouds
in the sky.
He remembers how
the logs roll
into cruel teeth
and lumber slides—
into soldier-straight lines,
building planed regiments
in the dust.
Memories stream
into Grandpa's mind.
Heart and hands,
older and gnarled,
itch to pull
the levers
of the mill
and time again.
Details
Author's note:
My paternal grandfather owned a small saw mill in New Hampshire. He was the sawyer (pronounced soy-yer in New England.) Before computerized mills, the sawyer operated the huge circular saw and decided what size boards and how many he wanted from each log—say four 2 x 4's or one 4 x 4 and eight 2 x 4's. He gauged the exact number of cuts and turns necessary to produce the pieces of lumber he envisioned and proceeded to mill them from each log to fill a customer's order.
Publisher
Original Publisher: Progenitor Art & Literary magazine
Reprinted with permission in The Glass Sponge
Publisher: Finishing Line Press
Publish Dates
1989
May 2013
