The Sawmill At Midnight
At our Eastern Red Cedar sawmill in the Ozarks, we’ve learned that some of life’s best lessons come long after sunset.
There’s something special about the kind of night that sneaks up on you.
The kind where you look at your watch and realize it’s nearly midnight — your body’s tired and aching, but your mind’s wide awake. The laughter’s still easy, and the work feels more like privilege than chore.
That’s how it was this past weekend up at our hunting lease north of Mountain Home. My brother Brady and I were both fortunate enough to harvest deer on Saturday, and our two boys — Liam and River — got to be right there in the middle of it all. They’re both ten, just four months apart, and more like brothers than cousins. When we started blood-tracking that deer through the dark, those two were side by side, flashlights bouncing and hearts racing, soaking in every bit of the adventure.
When we finally got the deer loaded and headed back to the sawmill to clean, I caught myself glancing at the clock. Normally, I’d have sent my boy to bed hours earlier. But that night was different. These are the moments childhood is made of — staying up too late, helping Dad and Uncle Brady, learning that work can be good and messy and sacred all at once.
After Hours
Our sawmill might be a business by day, but sometimes it feels more like an extension of our home. That night — like many fall nights — it transformed into a deer-processing station. We’ve got the setup down to a science: stainless tables, knives sharp enough to whisper through hide, and, thanks to all that aromatic Eastern Red Cedar stacked around us, probably the nicest-smelling butchering station in the world.
While Brady and I worked, the boys darted in and out between piles of tongue & groove and rough-cut boards. You could hear them whispering, laughing, and every now and then, arguing like little boys do. The chirp of crickets, the laughter of children, the scent of cedar, and the cool Ozark air — it’s the kind of mix that settles deep in your memory.
More Than a Mill
I’ve always said our sawmill is more than a place that makes lumber. It’s where we teach lessons you can’t find in a book — about patience, respect, and gratitude for the work in front of you. It’s where my dad taught us, and now we’re teaching our sons. The same hands that plane our Eastern Red Cedar tongue & groove are the hands that skin deer, shake customers’ hands, and bow in prayer before supper.
Nights like that remind me that what we’re really building here isn’t just cedar siding or tongue & groove — it’s character, family, and a way of life rooted in the kind of honest work that never goes out of style.
Built to Last
Cedar’s known for lasting a long, long time. It weathers storms and seasons and still stands strong. Maybe that’s why I love it so much — cedar feels like a reflection of what we hope to be as a family. Strong at the core, grounded in faith, and still smelling sweet even after life gets rough.
When I looked at those boys helping us that night — tired eyes, dirty hands, proud smiles — I realized we’re not just raising kids; we’re raising the next generation of craftsmen, fathers, and good men.
Until the Next Hunt
By the time we turned out the lights, it was nearing midnight. The sawdust was swept, the deer cooling in the fridge, and the boys barely awake in the truck before we left the gravel lot. It won’t be long until they aren’t little boys anymore. Soon they’ll be teenagers, then grown men — and I hope nights like these are the ones they’ll remember most.
At Mountain Milling Co., we’ll keep cutting boards, stacking lumber, and creating stories to tell — because that’s what we do. But more than anything, we’ll keep building memories that last generations.
