Sawdust. I was a special kid. “Botard” I believe, was the word plucked from careless teenage jargon. Botard. The fusion of BOCES, a trade program, and retard, from Latin for ‘back’+’slow’. I am/was botarded. I use a solidus because I’m not sure if one becomes unbotarded, who would distinguish such an accomplishment, or whether it is worthy of pursuit. The underlying assumption was that I was unfit for college. I agreed. The few who were going to college had nicer clothes than me.
Lunch. What I did. I went to school like a real student for half a day. I got to eat lunch. We were on government assistance and I made my own money. I got to eat double lunch. Then I went to the mill. They gave me a shovel. When logs are cut they make sawdust. The sawdust goes on sifters that shake it into piles of varying woodchip thickness. But the sifters drop a lot of woodchips on the floor. I was supposed to scoop them up and put them back on the sifter. I wasn’t alone. I worked with old Bob. He was old. And short. He had a hair-lip and they told me he was a retard. A regular retard.
Sawdust. The sawdust never stopped. Some days it was real hot down there. Some days it was cold. The constant was the shovel and its movement. A simple sweeping motion that commanded virtually no effort of thought. The sifter was loud. I don’t think there has been another time when I had thought so much. My back ached, my arms burned, and my head was full of conversations and movements. We were invisible down there. Untouched.
College. A handful of people had told me that it would be too hard for me to go to college. College was hard. A handful told me that I should. I had two handfuls. At twenty-three I went to a well-known university. I lived with my wife and our baby. I worked thirty or more hours a week. I took a weighted course load so I could get done faster. In three years I earned two bachelor’s degrees and a minor degree. I was on the dean’s list a few times. I took some graduate classes in my majors. I saw a lot of people who had convinced themselves of a lot of things. Not many of them, I supposed, knew what a shovel felt like.
Snow. There is a lot of snow in the world today. Too much some might say. Between the flat part of my roof, the driveway, the sidewalk, and two massive storms there was easily five tons of snow. I know what five tons feels like. Your back aches, your arms burn, and when you stop and lean on the shovel you can hear the snow falling.
