Whenever I think of buzzing wood back on the farm, I think of Robert Frost’s poem “Out, Out—” with the deeply sad ending. Still, that saw singing through slab wood was a satisfying sound. We brothers and my dad also maneuvered larger round logs through those vicious teeth. We were often so close to that deadly blade. Sometimes, the saw would bind, and the wide drive belt would pop off the big pulleys.
In this photo from January 1974, my dad and we boys strike poses after buzzing wood at twenty degrees below zero. Notice that our winter work clothes included old sport jackets and long dress coats. This rummage sale farm couture was hardly OSHA, but it fit the budget.
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