Sawdust

My memories of sawdust are linked with summertime. My dad would borrow his brother's farm truck and pick up a load of sawdust at the local mill. Soon it mulched the roots of the sugar maple Swing Tree in our back yard.

The Swing Tree was home to two homemade swings. The Little Swing hung from a low branch as was no more exciting than the swings at the park. But the Big Swing was quite another matter. It could soar. From the big swing you could see over the tops of the corn stalks and a quarter-mile down the road to the next neighbor. It could swing high enough to inspire fearless dreams and make any fantasy seem possible.

New sawdust smelled wonderful and gave the sense of a cushiony landing should the rope break. Fortunately, I don’t remember ever having to test that second attribute. What I do remember are the ants. Big, black, wood-chomping ants. They thought sawdust made a wonderful homestead. I disagreed.

Last Sunday's warm and breezy afternoon was the setting for our church picnic, held in an open air pavilion at a local park. The ground was clay, packed with remnants of gravel. It was the dearth of cushiony flooring that led to the unlikely topic: sawdust.

One woman commented that what the place needed was a good layer of sawdust. Another, agreeing, told of how she associated sawdust with old-time summer tent revivals. It occurred to me that I haven't seen sawdust used as a ground cover in years! I think it must all be glued into particleboard or pressed into fake logs now days.

When I began writing, I had a brilliant point in mind, but the sawdust has gone the way of scarecrow brains now and I don't remember what it was.

Blueberry Mornings

I like cool summer mornings. I like the clarity of the light. I like the optimism of the birdsongs. I like the settled freedom of calm air. So, other than an encounter with the occasional dew-strung spider web, what is not to like about picking blueberries?

And that is how I've been able to spend my early mornings of late, picking a cup of breakfast. Today's repast had been pre-washed by midnight thunderstorms, the berries mostly at shoulder-height, just ripe for the plucking.

The gardening of Eden must have been this easy. No sweat. No thorns. No curse.

Amid all these enjoyments, it occurred to me that blueberries are not blue; not really. The smallest ones were acid green, later adding flecks of vermillion. The maturing berries grew in successively deepening wines until they reached an indigo darkness. Then they lightened again in full ripeness. At best, a blueberry is bluish.

There ought to be a word!
And as it turns out, there is. A couple of them.

Caesious – being the color of lavender; with a slight blush of gray. This word also has the distinction of using all the vowels in order!

Glaucous – this botanical term refers to the waxy grayish-bluish-whitish coating. Grapes, plums, and blueberries are all glaucous.

Happy Birthday USA

I have been reading about our nation's founders this week. The more I read, the more I uncover the abysmal ignorance of Sheryl C., a social worker who once snottily asserted that our country was founded on violence. To the contrary, our forefathers exemplified patience and probity far beyond that which is natural to man. They also understood true peace with a depth of spirit that cannot be taught in a classroom.

The patriots of the 1770s knew that slaves under the yoke are not at peace, they are only compliant. They had seen King George III repeatedly increase the yoke.

In a different time and place, Paul wrote to the Galatians, "It was for freedom that Christ set us free; therefore keep standing firm and do not be subject again to a yoke of slavery." 5:1

Only a fool could believe our nation was founded on violence. It was founded on standing firm. Our founders were indeed Supermen who believed in Truth, in Justice, and in the American Way being tethered to such principles.