Dusty Recollections

Cedar shavings from a newly sharpened pencil or the knotty pine sawdust from Pappy’s latest project, the pungent aromas yield comfortable nostalgia. Even today, the fragrance of freshly sawn wood carries me all the way back to 1955. It kindles memories of Granny Smith’s house in Alamo, Indiana.

Atop the hill in Alamo, Pickett’s Grocery Store boasted the best candy selection in town. Of course, it was the only store in the little burg unless you count the gas station. Traveling three blocks down the hill from Pickett’s, you ran out of street. You either stopped in front of Granny's quaint red house or ended up explaining to the farmer why you were driving through his cornfield.

Just a walnut’s throw from Granny’s place lurked the verboten Fruits Saw Mill. Giant blades, three times bigger and a great deal sharper than us kids, ripped humongous logs into planks. The most fantastic byproduct of this venture was beyond temptation for an eight-year-old. A veritable mountain of sawdust was beckoning.

Who would not want to be King of Sawdust Mountain? Clever, we were the Alamo kids and me. We played kick-the-can in the lot next door, until dusk when the mill shutdown. We climbed the fence as Burl Fruits pulled away in his rattling old GMC truck.

There is no joy like forbidden joy. We frolicked and scrambled to gain the ruling roost at the top. To our amazement, sawdust is not quite as firm or stable as the Rocky Mountains. Jimmy sank from view. We quickly pulled him out and dusted ourselves off. Scurrying back over the fence, we were home free. Or so we thought.

Do you have any idea how invasive sawdust can be? Like Charlie Brown's buddy, Pig Pen, we left an Arbor-Day dust trail for the next three days. On wash day, I became painfully aware of our folly. The Maytag washer was churning away. Mom was checking my jean pockets for Bazooka bubble-gum and BBs. Just before she tossed them into the agitating foam, Mom unrolled the pant cuffs.

"Oh, No!" A bodacious buzz saw bounty spilled onto the linoleum floor. The evidence was insurmountable. No matter how creative my alibi, mom was not buying it.

"No kid ever generated that much sawdust building a birdhouse," she said.

Her one eyebrow was raised. The other brow lowered. Holy Moley! Mom's evil eye signaled judgment day. She knew that I knew the sawmill was off-limits.

“Since you love lumber and trees so much, go fetch me a good strong switch from one of those saplings in the backyard.”

King of the cowboys, Lash LaRue, with his twelve-foot bullwhip, was formidable. But Lash was no match for the skill and accuracy of Georgia Clore wielding a fresh green hickory switch.

I never climbed atop Sawdust Mountain again.

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A waft of knotty pine kindles a much more pleasant reminiscence.

Dad, Austin Clore, was a master craftsman when it came to woodworking. He built his shop out on east Delaware Street from the ground up. “Measure twice. Cut once,” became his mantra as a cabinetmaker. He cut each element for an entire kitchen, hauled the pieces to the site, and assembled them like a giant puzzle. So precise were the measurements, he never had to make another cut on location.

I can still smell the fresh-cut lumber as he expanded and remodeled his old shop into a home. Knotty pine tongue and groove planks finished off the living room and kitchen wainscoting. A light pinkish-white translucent sealer gave the wood and the room a bright feeling.

Pappy came by his carpentry skills quite naturally. I traced the Clore family tree all the way back to pioneer days. Settling in Virginia in the early 1700s, my ancestors carved out a living at Fort Germanna. Even today, you can find an A. E. Clore Furniture Company in Madison, Virginia.

Check out: https://clore.furniture/ or https://www.facebook.com/CloreFurniture/

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 Oh, that I would have inherited dad’s skill and woodworking talent, but alas, no. I took remedial woodshop classes at CHS. Mr. Achor was a patient and gracious instructor as I made more sawdust than finished products. He kept the projects simple.

An 8x6x1 inch board with a 1x4 inch long slot near the top edge and a semicircle on each side was supposed to be a spool to winding string around.

Three planks of poplar glued and clamped edge to edge, then run thru the plainer made a nifty drawing board that I still use today. 

The walnut bowl presented the biggest challenge to my skills and Mr. Achor’s patience. Laminating thick pieces of walnut stock together was neat and easy. The wood lathe thing was a bit messy. How I got a mountain of wood chips and sawdust out of one walnut bowl is beyond explanation.

Here is a 1964 picture of Chuck Clore in the CHS woodshop turning the walnut bowl.