The Sawmill
By Jane-Ann Heitmueller
“Well Darlin’,” said
Daddy, with a big smile on his handsome face, “it looks like we’re about to
become homeowners!”
It was a lovely
spring morning as my parents, hand in hand, proudly exited the front door of
their local, small town bank. They had just signed papers to borrow forty-five
hundred dollars. Although today it may seem an impossible task, back in 1950
Mom and Dad had already saved half the money they needed to build their new
home, but needed to borrow the remainder. It’s hard to believe that one could
construct a two story, three bedroom, one bathroom house with a full basement,
for a mere nine thousand dollars. The monthly mortgage to the local bank was thirty-six
dollars and if they really scrimped they could double up on the payment to save
both time and interest. Years earlier
Mom had purchased the two acre rural property, hoping to use it as a future
home site when she married. She had always dreamed of living out in the country
in a nice home with lots of space, room to have a large lawn, vegetable garden and
plenty of freedom from close neighbors.
There is much truth
in the saying that timing is everything, for little did they know that the day
after our basement was dug, Mr. Arnold would begin construction on his twenty
acre lumber yard just across the dirt road from our property.
Mom was beside
herself. “I simply can’t believe this!” she raged. “We can’t live across the
street from a sawmill. Think of all the noise, dust, trucks and traffic right
in our front door. Fred, we have to sell
this land right now and build farther away from town!”
Dad, the calmer of
my two parents, responded in a soft voice, “Now Honey, you know they will be
good neighbors and won’t be on our doorstep every day borrowing a cup of sugar
like a lot of people. It could be much worse. Let’s give it a try. We can
always sell the place later if things don’t work out. Why don’t we sleep on it
and see how we feel in the morning?”
“Oh, alright, but I
still don’t like the idea.”
In due time Mom came to the realization that
Daddy was correct, and we resumed the task of construction on our side of the
road. Meanwhile, Mr. Arnold diligently tended to his own building project.
Every day after work
and school, Mom, Dad and I would head out to see how the carpenters were coming
along with the house. Things seemed to be progressing on schedule as they dug
the basement, poured the footings and started work on the framework. We didn’t
pay much attention to Mr. Arnold’s sawmill
construction until the Sunday afternoon we drove up to check on the house and were startled to see the massive
smokestack they had moved into the mill yard.
“Daddy, Daddy, let’s
go see it,” I begged, tugging at his sleeve with typical nine year old
eagerness.
“Alright,” he said, after a minute or two of consideration,
“don’t suppose it would hurt to take a look.”
As Dad and I approached
the smokestack, stretched on its side across the dirt lot, we could see that it
was much larger than we had imagined. Daddy was six feet tall and he could
actually stand up inside, with several inches to spare. He estimated that it was
at least a hundred feet long. What a
grand time I had running back and forth in that dark, echoing tunnel of fun,
trying to imagine how in the world they would ever hoist it upright, and how majestic it would look standing erect with
black smoke billowing from the top.
It was at that moment
I lost all interest in our own construction project and centered my entire
focus on Mr. Arnold’s amazing task. Every afternoon, my dog Sambo and I would
perch atop the mound of dirt created from digging our basement. We’d sit
spellbound for hours, watching bulldozers, cranes and other heavy equipment
busily working across the road. It was our
own magical erector set. During the next
few weeks we’d watch with intrigue as
the framework of the sawmill took shape.
Three massive tin buildings sprang to life before our very eyes. A huge concrete
vat was dug that would eventually be filled with water and used as a source of
transportation for the freshly debarked logs. Eventually, the day came when
Sambo and I were simply transfixed with fascination and excitement as they
began the precarious job of positioning that towering smokestack into place. I held my breath… knowing for sure the cables
would break and the gigantic structure would fall crashing to the ground! Gee, this was better than going to watch Roy
Rogers at the Saturday matinee and we had the best seat in the house!
By early fall we
moved into our new home and in short time the mill was also completed and started
doing business. Mom was correct in many respects. It wasn’t long before the
parade of bulky log trucks began delivering their freshly cut timber to be sold
for lumber. They clogged the road in front of our house and made it difficult
for us to come and go out of our own driveway. With all the traffic came the
constant clouds of thick, red dust seeping into every slight crevice and crack,
leaving a thin layer of silt on our floors, furniture, curtains and cabinets.
The bulky saws and powerful machines emitted unbearable screeching and banging.
We quickly learned that the only time Mr. Arnold closed his mill was Sunday,
other than that, the work continued both day and night. To add insult to injury, Mr. Arnold installed
a shrill, deafening whistle to his daily operation. They blew that noontime
whistle as a signal for the workers to cease operations for lunchtime, then
thirty minutes later to resume their labor. It could be heard miles away
downtown, so you can imagine how loud it was right next door. Those billowing,
black clouds of smoke I had been so anxious to see now drifted overhead and
were filled with minute pieces of soot that floated down like tiny black
feathers over the landscape, covering our entire yard and rooftop. We had to
leave our shoes on the porch so we wouldn’t track the filthy residue into the
house.
“Dang it,” Mom complained, “I can’t even hang my laundry on
the line any more. What are we ever going to do about all this mess?”
Thank goodness Mr.
Arnold’s employees didn’t enjoy having their vehicles covered with those black
particles either. Finally, after a few weeks of hearing their many complaints,
he put a filter on the smokestack and solved that problem for everyone.
Just after Christmas
I developed a strange fever late each afternoon and Dr. Stitt couldn’t seem to
find the origin of the problem. He sent me home with medicine and told Mom to
see that I got plenty of sleep. There was no way, with all the noise coming
from the mill, that I could get any rest. I was miserable, tossing and turning
for days, as poor Mom worried and paced, doing everything possible to barricade
my room from the constant racket that invaded our lives.
“I just can’t stand
this any longer,” she firmly announced late one Saturday afternoon. “She’ll never get better if they don’t do
something about all that noise. The poor little thing can’t have a minute of
peace. I’m going to march over there right this minute and give that Mr. Arnold
a piece of my mind!”
Dad’s calm demeanor came
to the rescue once again. “I know it’s hard sweetheart, but tomorrow is Sunday and
the mill will be closed. Let’s wait until the first of the week. If she hasn’t
improved by that time I’ll go over and speak with him. He has children of his
own and I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Well, maybe so,”
Mom answered sternly, “but I’m not going to wait a second later than
Monday morning and I mean that!”
Fortunately, for
both myself and Mr. Arnold, late Sunday evening I suddenly emerged from my mysterious
malady and things returned to normal. We eventually became desensitized to the
daily melee in our little world and only noticed the noise, dust and traffic
when a visitor brought it to our attention.
The lumber yard soon became
my own private Disneyland. Sambo and I spent many
joyous hours climbing, hiding and chasing each other on top of and around the
stacks of logs. I became great pals with
Mr. Cole, the jolly fellow in charge of measuring and marking each truckload of
logs for sale. The ladies in the office kept their eye out for me and spoiled
me with candy from the vending machine. I couldn’t have been happier.
One hot, summer
Sunday afternoon when I was about twelve, I headed over to the log vat with a
special mission in mind. The little pond I had dug in the backyard needed some
water creatures and I knew exactly where I could find them. Just last week I
had discovered millions of tadpoles swirling amidst the vat’s murky water and
floating chunks of bark. Carefully, lowering myself down the slippery algae
covered incline, I bent over and scooped up as many of the tiny little
chattering frogs the front of my shirt could hold. Then, dripping with slime
and bark fragments, I joyfully grasped the treasured contents to my chest, staggered
home and proudly dumped my prized load of wiggling frogs into the newly
constructed pond.
When I turned
fifteen and wanted to get my driver’s license the mill property became my
special obstacle course. Mom and I spent
many Sunday afternoons there as I jerked and jumped our old ’54 Chevy all over
that lot, learning how to safely change gears on the straight shift and skillfully
maneuver around the stacks of lumber.
After college I left
home, married and moved a few miles away to a home of my own. In time, Daddy passed away and Mom was left to
live alone in the little home they had built together some fifty years earlier. Frequently, over the next few years, Mom
would tell me about some deed the people
at the mill had done for her. The many times they helped her start her stalled
lawnmower, moved a heavy wheelbarrow of dirt or carried heavy fallen limbs to
the burning pile. She recounted the numerous occasions when one of the
employees seemed to just suddenly materialize when she needed a helping hand,
always eager to be of assistance to the nice little lady across the road. It pleased me and gave me peace of mind to
know they were always watching out for her. Mom knew she could always count on her good
neighbors at the mill and often remarked that Daddy was a wise man to realize
that very fact so many years ago.