Sawdust

Sawdust 

Might as well start at the beginning, with two of my hero’s. Without them there would be no story to write. These are my folks Bruce and Monique.

Bruce Rowley was born in 1963 in a small community south of Salt Lake City, Utah. His father, Clayton, had just returned from an LDS mission in California, and before that Korea. He was dealing with the fallout of being a war veteran. He would go on to have a career much like mine of serving others.  His mother, Jana, was a simple country girl. She grew up in Carbon County, where her father mined Cole. Clayton’s father was a carpenter by trade. He created things from nothing, taking raw materials from our earth and turning them into something beautiful. This is the beginning of the sawdust that flows through our veins.

Monique was born in 1965 to Carol and Jerry. Jerry was in the United States military, again an example of service to me. Carol was an office manager, did marvelously well for herself, and raised her family on what she carved out with a simple high school education. They had just returned from a short stint in Tennessee; this time, living in TN was tumultuous; it was a place so much different from the home Carol had known, and it was lonely. It would cause some strife in the marriage, and although they didn’t realize it at the time, the fray in the rope that held their little family together had started. Jerry’s father was somewhat of a hermit; he worked in automotive mechanics and spent much of his life in the Roosevelt, Utah, area. I have never known much about him; Jerry’s  mother was a career civilian military employee; she was a sweet, dignified lady who thought children should be “seen and not heard.” Carol’s mother, Anita, was the very definition of a homemaker; she passed on recipes and lessons to all of us. Dean Carol’s father was a union Carpenter in Salt Lake County and one of my favorite childhood role models. Another stone in my foundation was built from sawdust.

Bruce married Monique in 1983; at that time, he worked for a raised panel door shop in Draper, Utah. Not long before he realized he had a knack for this kind of work. This knack would turn into an art form I have had the privilege to watch over the last 40 years transform into something truly remarkable. Above all things in my mind, my dad is a Master Craftsman. Without bias, every project he produces, from a bathroom vanity to a staircase to the cabinets in his own home, are by very definition a work of art. His dedication to his craft and the beauty he creates inspire me to this day, shaping my own identity and the way I approach life.

Monique works with a different medium. Monique is an artist of personality; she shapes people. Over her long career of the same 40 years, she has taught countless lessons to her five children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews,  our friends, cub scouts, school children, her siblings, and even her parents. Her unique way of going about her work of loving those close to her much more than she has ever cared about herself is a truly remarkable method. The true artistry of what she does will live on for generations.

Now, I will get allegorical and tie all of this together. My first memories of working with Dad in the shop included pushing a broom and sweeping the shop in a way that was not satisfactory for my perfectionist father. He would usually, at least when I was younger, step in and help out so that it was clean enough for him to go to work the following day. Although no matter how much time we spent cleaning the shop, blowing out the corners with air hoses, moving machines, and sweeping, there was always sawdust left in the shop. Throughout my childhood, there was always sawdust in the pockets of my jeans, hair, eyes, shirt, and shoes. Even on days when we didn’t work, like Sunday, I would have it on my church clothes from Dad’s truck seats. Each type of wood creates a different dust color, and with that different color comes a distinct smell. I grew very tired of most of these as a teen. Now, later in life, I burn incense made of pine tar, burn candles that smell of teak and burnt oak, and relish a glass of my favorite bourbon aged in charred oak barrels. These things I surround myself with all take me back to a simple time when life was not so complicated. They take me back to the days filled with sawdust, evoking a sense of nostalgia that is both comforting and bittersweet.

Like the ever-present sawdust of my youth, the lessons imparted by these artists have shaped who I am. These craftsmen and women have shared their wisdom with me, and their influence remains with me always. No matter what I do or where I go, they are a part of me, even in places I have yet to explore. This sawdust, a symbol of their lasting impact, lingers in the corners of my mind, serving as a testament to the enduring connection of family that keeps us close, no matter the distance.