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.