Ray

  
Today while I was cutting firewood in the backyard, I began reminiscing about my job at the sawmill, over thirty years ago. The fresh Douglas fir sawdust flying from my chainsaw smelled the same today as it did back then. I began to hear the sounds of the sawmill. The pounding of logs on their way to the head-rig, the tearing of saw blades, the rip of the planer, the slapping of lumber coming off the green chain. I could feel the building shake, and I began to see their faces again. Phil, Bob, and Jay. Mark, having a laugh with Cho and Kim. Patty with her leather gloves tucked in the back pockets of those tight blue jeans. Glen and Old Throp, grading and stamping the lumber. Ken, high on speed, keeping up with the best of ‘em. And Ray.

Today I wished I could go back to that mill just one more time. Back three decades. Back to the night before Ray died. I’d sit by him at the lunch table and say “Ray, don’t come in to work tomorrow. Take your wife and kid out for a drive in that new truck you’re so proud of. And when you come back, don’t wear those steel toe boots. They’re not safe. They’re more dangerous that you could ever imagine. And from now on, don’t climb up on that machine of yours anymore when it’s running. And when boards get caught in the rollers, don’t ever try to kick them through with your foot. When boards get caught like that, turn off the machine Ray. Turn off the machine.”