The Way Poem by JDC LeDrew

FIRST MONTH OF SUMMER
It is June. In the summer of June.
The weather of June and the work of June.
While she is the fair lady to some,
The darling of the schoolboys...
To him she is, 'The mill.'

Not for life for him. Not for soul.
Not for eat and drink and clothes for the baby.
Not for the frown when comes the weekly check,
Or for the tight lips of the woman as she gives
All but pennies to the market clerk.
Not life for him,
Just for the season.
For this he is suspect.

THE FIRST HOUR
Don't stop work on the chain to watch him come.
'They say he comes from town? '
'Drives the mountain everyday? '
'Put him on the chain.
Put him up front, pulling small stuff.”
' His name? Oh, don't know as I've heard it.'
There is a stranger among us.

'Yes, I see you brought gloves.
They are dandies.'
(Laughter from the line.)
'Use these. Yours won't last the day.
Stand here. Pull this and this wood, like so...
Yes... Can you tell the difference?
Well, you'll get the hang of it.'
The foreman leaves him.

He stands on the line and pulls.
Ten foot, pull!
Twelve foot, pull!
Twelve foot... Is it twelve foot?
No! It's fourteen...?
(He lets it go, unsure)
'Hey! You're missin' wood! '
'Come on! Pull your wood up there! Damn-it! '
'Throw the boards back up the line at him!
Throw'em at his feet!
That'll teach him! '

Pull! Pull!
Skip!
Pull!
Oh God! That one's in the wrong stack!
I missed one! Missed one!
He’s drenched with sweat,
His forearm bleeding.
Pull! Pull! Ten foot, twelve foot.
'Pull your wood up there! '
The carrier driver turns to the foreman, in disgust,
'He forgot to sticker! '
They both shake their heads.

THE FIRST LUNCH
They sit on benches in a shed,
Benches of rough wood and sixteen-penny nails,
Backs against the wall.
He notices the wood smell of the place for the first time.
It's a green wood smell, wet and sweet.
He would look for water to wash,
But there is no water near.
While the others fish like bears in their buckets,
He begins to fish as well.

All eyes are diverted,
Covert glances quickly cast.
They talk in murmurs about the company softball team.
They talk of a man, who has gone,
'Down the road...'
'Seven years here, why would he throw it away? '
' Well, ' says one, 'He's been nursin' plenty hard of late.'
'Nursin'? ' a young man questions.
'The bottle! The bottle! ' the reply.
Silence falls.
All understand.

Silence hangs like the wood dust in the air.
He can see the wood dust floating on sunbeams,
Fingers of light that reach through cracks in the shed.
As the wood dust settles on their food,
He eats the dust with them.
It's dark and heavy inside the shed.
It smells of the work of men.
One young man speaks. His voice is aggressive, too loud.
'What say your name is? '
He tells him his name.
They repeat his last name.
They will know him by this name alone
The entire summer.
It is their way.

The young man questions him.
'Ya here just for the summer uh?
What do ya do for the rest of the year? '
(He tells him.)
'You have to go to school for that! ' the young man replies.
Then he turns to the others
As though they hadn't heard,
Says he, 'Just a seasonal man.'
The blowers start and whistle screams.

A LINK IN THE CHAIN
He pulls the front of the chain
While his arms ache and sweat burns his eyes.
His foot is bruised,
He has dropped a cross arm on it.
It's easy on the front of the line they tell him.
Ten foot, pull! Twelve foot, pull!
'You're missin' wood! ' someone yells.
The chain is a blur!

'Pull your wood! ' a voice screams.
His face is hot and he gasps for breath.
Someone throws twelve footer down the deck
And it strikes his ankle.
It is a board he has missed.

He rushes down the deck,
His face distorted with rage.
Someone hits the bell to stop the chain.
(Each man must pull wood or the chain must stop.)
He thrusts his face within inches
Of the young man who threw it?
He is not sure.
He does not care!
He hurls an oath! His anger is a bent saw blade.
It would rip both good and bad wood the same!
'We won't have words, ' he hisses,
If you throw boards up the deck again! '
The chainman screams back,
'Pull your wood then! God-damn-it! '

Their eyes are locked together.
Neither man will speak.
Both hold their hands balled-up,
As tight as the bird's eye knots in the fir.
The fans scream, the planer screams, the saws scream,
But there is no sound on the deck.
Someone blows the pick-up horn
And the carrier roars up like a fat woman
With an empty wash basket!
The spell is broken.

The whistle blows,
But he stays on the line to kick at the stack.
He stays to straighten it,
Embarrassed by the way it leans.
When he reaches the shed
The others are carding the clock.
He sees the man whom he charged
And their eyes meet.

The fellow nods and says, 'See ya tomorrow.'
He nods back.
There is no rage left in either man.
There is in each,
A cautious understanding.

THROUGH JULY
He drives the mountain road each morning
Before the light.
It winds between the mountains from the city.
Mountains that create a barrier
So much higher than two thousand feet.
Up and around, then down to the valley,
They do say it so;
'Down to the valley.'
Down to the mill people there.

He works the chain from light to night,
Works it now with arms like cables.
He has the rhythm. He has mastered the motion.
He works shoulder to shoulder with the others.
They wear leather aprons over tattered jeans.
They wear old flannel shirts, pocketless and worn.
He pulls the twenty-six foot boards
While his flannel shirt runs dark with sweat.
Now he pulls the chain's end.

COME AUGUST
Come August, each face now claims a name;
The young man with the mossy cheeks,
The foreman with the tobacco-stained fingers,
The giant of a man with a twisted smile
That hides behind a chew.
Each owns his name.
He owns a name too,
But it's not all he owns.
'After work, gonna stop by the Woodsman.
Stop in with us? '
'Think I might. Think I might, ' he says.

He drinks the beer with them
And they talk of common things,
Talk of the mill and softball and family.
He tells them about his baby girl
And they listen with smiles.
The young man says he must fix a fence,
'Neighbors don't like the cow in their orchard.
Quite a job...'
'When are you planning on doin' it?
Might be free to lend a hand, ' he says.
The young man looks surprised.
'Well, ' says he, 'You could lend me a hand this Saturday! '
They mend fence together.

LAST LUNCH, LAST WHISTLE
'Well now, ' the young man says,
Just won't be the same 'round here now you're leavin'!
'Think you ought to up and quit that other job,
Stay on here with us! '
He mumbles something about making too much money if he does.
Friendly laughter,
Then comfortable silence.
The carrier driver slides a peeled egg across the bench.
'Jest take it! Jest take it! I got two.'
The egg tastes sweet to him.

Says one, 'You remember now, there's a road runs
Between the mountains and this-here valley! '
He could not forget.
He will never forget.
He now knows the road and the destination,
Has sweated a long summer to get there.
He will always respectfully remember the way.