That Time

 He had the habit, in moments of thought, of dropping his right hand to the waist-band of his trousers, and gently fondling the silver braces clip. It was an unconscious action, a comfort. Almost as if it were a talisman that enabled him to think the clearer. She watched him as he did it now, and smiled to herself as she recognised a gesture so unremarkable, so insignificant, yet so individual to this man whom she knew so well.

Unlike the heroes in novels and feature films, he had never been dashingly handsome. A good-natured face would have been the best description for it, and he would have been the first to say that he held no towering intellect. 

She looked at him, his head bent slightly, eyes looking at his feet, but seeing something so far away and perhaps so long ago. He had always done that, had always been the sort to sink into reverie in his quieter moments. She had been surprised to learn that such a thinker was also such a simple man. He had little education, and yet thought hard about many things. They were largely practical, everyday things, but he gave them solid thought. She realised very early on that he may have been simple, but he was not stupid. 

It had been a gentle Courting. More of a Romance than a Courtship, she reflected. A soft and slow meandering of two people into each others lives. Tentatively browsing each others' personality. Gently touching characteristics of the other as they spoke over time. A long time. It was as if they had opened a door into each other and discovered a shop, a shadowed and crowded place, full of interesting things that they could look at and examine before replacing them gently. Each so very aware of the invisible rule that care must be taken not to damage anything, nor steal from this Emporium of Delights which was their Lover's mind.

Perhaps it was a foolishness that allowed each of them to be so trusting of the other. Or maybe it was naiveté. Certainly, had either of them been hurt in love before, or been more worldly in their experiences, such trust could not have happened. But they were Innocents, and so they trusted. Never having been betrayed or hurt, they each allowed the other inside themselves, and found Wonder that never really faded.

Unconsciously, his fingers caressed the clip on his waist, a gentle motion, as slow as his breath. He looked far back and far away, considering.

Years after they married, Jane became aware of how fortunate they had been. Two untouched young people, living in a relatively innocent time, before the spread of media brought brash ideas, fashions and questions into every corner of life. A time when morals were firm and families strong, and where small communities could shelter innocents and give them a chance to find each other. She realised, of course, that such pipe-dreams didn't really exist, and that each society harboured its' own shadows. But she appreciated that some tiny pocket had been there, an eddy in the river of her life, which allowed her to stop, for just a moment, and find this fellow traveller, as innocent as her, and let them swirl through the World together.

 She was, she knew, no prize catch herself. "Plain" was the obvious addition to her given name, and it had been applied often enough for her to accept, despite her hidden hatred of the implication it held for her future. She could have become resentful of the name, but one person had forestalled that, before it even began.

"Jane", her Mother would say, "you have qualities you do not realise. One day someone will see them and appreciate you for who you are, not who you look like." The lesson was repeated often, and eventually to good effect. She believed, and kept her self-esteem.

They had met at a Social Dance, back when such things existed. A coming together of people from all walks of life, from miles around. Everybody brought a plate to share for supper, and the kitchen was as busy as the bar. Sharing home-made dishes was as natural as speaking, with no thought of anyone getting sick, or taking legal action if they did. She could never recall it happening, and she had eaten her share of stranger's tuna casseroles over the years. It was a more trusting time, she thought.

Bill had first held her waist during a progressive Barn Dance, a simple waltz specifically designed to force strangers to dance with strangers. He had smiled, introduced himself, asked if she lived locally. She had smiled, told him her name, and said she was the local teacher. He had raised his eyebrows in surprise and pleasure, and then she had spun gently away into the arms of her next partner. 

And so it had begun.

He wondered where the time had gone. It seemed so clear in his mind. The sunburnt ground, dry and crumbling under a heavy sun, and he, lithe and young, full of spirit and innocent optimism. So much had happened so quickly. He had hardly time to breathe before here he sat, old, and slow, and so lacking in the youth he had revelled in.

He had been (he reflected), a bit of a lad in his day. Always willing to have a go at most things, especially sport or daring. The local lads had taken him in when he had arrived in town. New faces were always welcome, and a fun loving young man found good company in the local dare-devils. He had enjoyed the sports and hi-jinks at the swimming hole, and laughed as loud as any of them at the fun they had. 

But he had his limits. He was not a drinker. It never appealed to him. He'd seen the effects of too much drink and decided it was not for him. Nor did he play the fool with the girls. That was from his upbringing, he reflected later in life. Respect the ladies, and always be a gentleman. Of course, being a farm worker was hardly likely to attract the Belle of the Ball types, anyway. He was also shy, something of a loner in the midst of the happy crowd of young men he mingled with. He was more than happy to walk away with a smile and an apology when the parties got too loud.

That time, he decided, had been an instant. A moment. A flash that only existed so he could be in the right place to meet Jane.

From that place and time, his life had been Endless. An expanding Globe of Wonder that filled him with a deeper meaning of Life and Happiness. The happiness he felt within her smile, her hand in his, his pride in her becoming his wife, his lover, and mother to their family. 

Even the tragedies and hardships were eased because he knew her support, her undying dedication to him, and her faith that it would work out, would give him the strength to carry them all through. Ah, it had been good. Such a long time now, and yet still full and fresh as their first love.

He had been shy at first, he reflected, gazing at his Old Man Slippers, but seeing only soft conversation and polite goodnights. She had been guarded and he had been unsure, so they trod softly down the path to Romance. Acquaintances first, after a meeting at a dance. He was never sure how it was they learned each others names. Funny that. Then friends, meeting at social events, picnics, the movies. Then drives in her car, for he was too poor to own one, and then holding hands, and then..... a kiss.

She saw him smile in the midst of his memories, or meanderings, she didn't know which, and smiled in return, mirroring, if only she knew, the smile he saw after that first kiss. She reached over and touched his hand, like so many times before, and he raised his eyes and looked into hers. His hand curved up and held hers gently. They both nodded. And not a word was said.

The Valley

 I sat tonight and watched as the clouds stooped low across the valley, their grey presence endowing the the night with a presence both forbidding and calming.

A blanket of dense foreboding, the anticipation of rain with no guarantee of its coming. And the air became very still.

Every breath was felt, Every current of the air became telling, a tense suggestion of the relief to come, but always as a possibility, never as a promise.

The Moon, almost full, hung invisible beyond the cloud covered Universe, it's light filtered and scattered like the promises of unfulfilled Love. Its power diminished by the actions of atmospheric intent, it could only sail on and watch.

I sat in the stillness, an unwilling watcher in the night, the heavens forming and folding in an atmospheric ballet of beauty and threat. I breathed that still air, I felt the weight of anticipation as the night unfolded in the air around me. 

My breath caught, I was entrapped by the moment as the the billowing clouds dropped lower, loomed darker, threatened the welcoming but impossible rain. 

And then, as by the hand of the Divine, they lifted. 

The Moon shone through, and all that could have been was gone.

Roast Dinner and Memories

 There is one fact that can never be denied in this world; No person ever left Norm Coleman's table hungry.

There were folks who would drop by for a chat. A cup of tea and discussion of a committee meeting or plans for some project and somehow, by accident or design, end up staying for a meal. Teenage friends of us children often came for the afternoon and found themselves seated at the table for dinner. 

Always there was enough. 

Our father was a good cook. He enjoyed cooking, and loved feeding people. To see his satisfaction when presenting a meal, whether it was a family dinner or breakfast for forty starving Boy Scouts was proof in itself of his love of giving people a good feed. Any bystander could sense his satisfaction as he watched the table being emptied of his efforts. 

Cooking for a crowd, I can see him yet; tea-towel over his left shoulder, his uniform in the kitchen. He moved with a purpose, unhurried, yet brisk, a focus in his eye. A sense of timing that ensured everything was just so when it it needed to be. Cooking for twenty or cooking for two was one and the same, or so it seemed. He appeared to be at ease in every task. The man filled a doorway like no-one I ever knew, yet moved around that tiny kitchen with a deft assuredness, as if he had all the room and all the time in the world.

Of course these are generalisations, ones that the man himself would be quick to deny, but they are also truths, in the real sense of the word, and deserve qualification.

There is more to him than this, a deeper and more personal story which I hope the family can explain more clearly. As always, I believe it began in Norman Laurence Coleman's early years.

Dad was a true child of the Depression. Born in 1930, the eldest child of a family that genuinely had it tough, he knew what it took to survive on very little. There were no government subsidies for rent or low-income payments back then. A man out of work had to hit the road to find work, and there were lots of men on the road. Dad saw how his mother (a tower of strength if there ever was), could stretch resources to feed a growing family, as younger brothers and sisters were added to the brood in the next few years. He also realised that as the eldest, a level of responsibility lay across his broadening shoulders, and it became heavier as he grew. He never shirked that load, and took it seriously all of his life, often at great cost to himself. Yet I never heard him complain. Not until the very end. But that's another story.

Our parents were not gourmet chefs. Not even close. The food in our family was basic, solid English style fare of the sort that had fed generations of British immigrants to Australia for generations. Salt and tomato sauce were probably the most common condiments in our house, with Worcestershire sauce and pepper getting an honourable mention, particularly on eggs. Dad also had a fondness for Barbecue sauce, but only on specific things. The thought of chilli, turmeric, Chinese Five Spice, or other exotics would not have crossed my parents' minds. They had nothing against herbs and spices, they simply didn't have the experience of ever using them. You don't miss the things you have never had.

I can understand why people gravitated to our house, and it was not all about the food. Our home always seemed to be a welcoming place for children and adults alike. There is a comforting security in  being welcomed without being told you're welcome. Of course, a good meal also helps.

I can still smell a roast leg of mutton, cooked in the wood stove, the outer skin made crisp by rendered fat. Potatoes, creamy, buttery softness inside, with crunchy burnt exteriors courtesy of over an hour nestled up against that roasting piece of meat. Pieces of pumpkin, cooked to collapsing, the tops burnt and caramelised, the flesh creamy mouthfuls of flavour. Gravy made in the roasting pan, using the juices from the meat. There was a technique here, a certain procedure to produce the best gravy. 

Drain the fat, preferably into a tin of dripping on the back corner of the stove. Place the pan over the stove top and warm it. Add flour by sprinkling it across the delicious residue in bottom of the baking pan, then loosen it with a fork as the flour absorbs the juices and starts to thicken. When it gets hotter, but before it burns, add water and stir with the fork to ensure there are no lumps in the flour. Cook to the desired consistency, season to taste and serve a delicious gravy. That's what my father told me, even showed me, on my specific request.

I have never been able to replicate his gravy. 

There were big dividends to be had if you gambled on a roast at the Coleman house. 

Of course it wasn't all roast dinners and big meals. I would estimate that from somewhere around the mid 1960's until Dad's passing in 2004 there were probably far more lean years than plenty. Yet somehow it never seemed that way for us children. We never felt we went without.

Oh, we knew there were things we couldn't afford. The luxuries that would have been nice, but weren't necessary were often beyond our reach, and we knew that. But the essentials were always there. We had clean clothes, (if occasionally a little threadbare), shoes on our feet, (even if they were sometimes thin on the sole), a firm guiding hand when we needed it, and food on the table.... good food... 

Recall

 Can you recall?

Can you recall being woken in the pre-dawn, then dressing in the dark?

Making your way through the sleeping house, to breakfast in the kitchen. Subdued conversation by the slow combustion stove. Steaming cups of tea? Do you recall?

Remember pulling on our boots outside the kitchen door? Walking up the slope to the shed, the dawn of an early summer's day breaking the sky to our right. The dogs chained to the kennels, straining to be let off. But not today, we have different work today.

Do you remember?

Do you remember the sound of our boots on the shearing board, as we walked past the stands on our left? Silent now. The catching pen doors to our right, worn smooth and dark-stained from years of greasy wool. The silence of the shed looming dark behind them. Do you remember?

Does it come back to you?

Does the smell of leather and horses come back to you, as we lifted bridles from their hooks and opened to door to the horse yard? The horses, brought in the night before, walking over, expectant and needy. A few handfuls of chaff in a 12 gallon drum, cut lengthways for a feed trough. a quick curry comb over them both, then bridles fitted, with cheek-straps left undone. A quick hoof check, then blanket and saddles are on. The chaff is gone, so cheek-straps are done, girths are tightened, and we mount. Now we feel the day has begun.

Remember?

Remember walking out the yard gate, around the corner of the yards and up over the ironstone patch, gently clicking and talking to the horses, their ears flicking, and pulling gently at the bit? Up to the Ram Paddock gate, opened and closed as we go through. 

Is it there?

Is it there, in your memory? The easy way we broke into a hand canter, almost spontaneously, as we headed North. The horses keen to go, and us, so young and loving life, revelling in this freedom and this responsibility. Of course, we were really burning the edge of the horses' energy, in preparation for the work ahead. Or so we would say if questioned. But it was lovely to ride like that in the early morning.

Can you see it?

Can you see the fences of the top paddocks as we rode up, the horses blowing gently, and the day beginning to warm around us? Into the East paddock. and then we split, you to ride North and then around to the East, me to go East, then off to the North. Can you see us doing that? 

Is it still in your Memory?

Does your memory still show you us pushing along the paddock edges, well in, but within sight of the fence? Far enough away to push the stock into the centre, but close enough to catch the stragglers on the fence. Watching as we rode, seeking out the clumps of Brigalow, where some old ewe may have "planted" a lamb or two, or behind a patch of lime bush, where a matriarch might stand defiant and stamp her hoof, until the wise old horse would gently call her bluff and send her scurrying off. I know your memory holds it close.

Does it come back to you?

Does the gathering of the mob come back to you? As we gently pushed them down toward the gate, the morning tending towards noon. Ewes calling for lambs, stopping and looking back. Lambs bleating, running back and forth from one sniffing ewe to another. Slowly now, no more than a walk. we have miles to go.

Remember?

Remember walking the horses slowly, sparing the ewes and lambs? Chatting, and telling of moments when some old girl would refuse to leave her lamb, until you picked it up and put it across your saddle. Then she seemed quite happy to go running off ahead, so you could put him down again and let him run to catch her. Or the sadness of seeing a young carcasse, and a mother standing near, reluctant to let her baby go. And the horses, heads down, reins loose, ambling along...content...

Can you picture?

Can you picture the gates in the corner? The mob beginning to compress. One of us rides ahead to open the gate, while the other stands ready to start the push. One of us behind, ready to initiate the push, the other through the gate, preparing to stem the rush. Not too fast, not too slow. Keep the mob together. The dust cloud gathers in the gateway as the they stream through. Now a moments milling to break the forward momentum. let the ewes find their lambs, then off we go again.

Can you recall?

Can you recall the final stage, with dusty sheep, and the heat of the day almost here? Moving the mob with care, but trying to beat the worst of the heat, so ewes and lambs don't stress. You've got at least a couple of lambs across the saddle-bow now, as the younger ones tire and need a gentle hand. The back of the mob is almost all lambs now, they are slowing, but we're almost there. I ride ahead and open the gate from the ram paddock onto the ironstone patch, then shepherd the mob around the corner and into the top yard of the stockyards. The mob streams slowly through the gate and is easily turned into its' destination. 

Bringing the lambs in for marking.

We swing down and lead our horses down for a drink... 

Writing My Way Back (pt 3)

This is supposed to be Part 4, but I skipped Part 3 because it was so redundant it was a shame. Trust me, you don't want to know.

Anyway, this one is titled "Contribution". 

As always , we are expected to examine our lives and be reminded of the times we have contributed to our family, our friends and to Society. Have we helped in our family in any way, have we done good turns for our friends, have we done a kindness for strangers? These are are strategies used to "pull us up" from the malaise we are feeling, and remind us of the good we do every day for our fellow man. 

Unfortunately, for those of us with a higher intellect, those who are more self-aware, we can see through these platitudes and recognise them for the easy escape that they are. I choose to take a harder route. 

Have I contributed? Why, Yes, I have.

In school I was the renegade. I was given an inch and proceeded to take the mile. I argued with teachers, with Principals, and with rules. I was not a rebel, but a questioner, a mirror to the standards that were taught. I won both friends and enemies, neither of which gave me any advantage in my schooling.

At work I have always looked for better ways, and my cynicism has marked me both as a trouble maker, and as a source of opinion. Often this has led to improvements for those who came later, but rarely for myself. 

In my family, I have contributed in many ways. In childhood, I was a source of concern. My propensity for trying to kill myself through accident, and my position as the more than usually inept Middle Child had both Parents and Older Siblings alternately hovering over or berating me as I grew up. The feeling of never being quite good enough has never left me. 

Then I discovered a talent for comedy. This was my contribution. I left a trail of one-liners, sarcasm, and notable quotes behind me wherever I went.  This was my passport to forgiveness. As long as I was funny, or at least witty, my physical and social ineptitudes could be overlooked. I became the family clown.

Have I contributed? Yes I have. I have provided entertainment and challenges for so many in my life.

Have I contributed constructively? I don't know. I cannot judge. That is for others to decide. 

Writing My Way Back (Pt 2)

 The question is; "What is missing from my life, right now/" 

I could be glib and mention the millions of dollars which would allow me to do whatever the Hell I wanted to do, or the talent which would make the things I struggle to achieve so much easier. But I don't think that is the spirit of the question.

Frankly, I have a problem with the question. This is not because I can name so many things which are missing, nor is it because I refuse to confront the fact that there are serious and profound elements which I lack in my current circumstances.

I think my issue with the question "What is missing in my life, right now?" is my approach to the question. As much as I am a dreamer and an idealist, I am also at heart, a practical country boy. I tend to examine things from both sides. What is broken? Why is it broken? How can we fix it? How can we not break it again? And most importantly; Can we still get some use from it until we can get it repaired?

That is how I see this question. It's not a conscious thing, more instinctual and automatic.

So, here we go. What is missing in my life, right now?

First of all I need to see what I HAVE in my life, in order to determine what is missing.

I have an income, which provides the necessities for comfortable living, in a place which is safe, secure, and has various safety nets which allow me to live without worrying about those things being taken away. 

I have a circle of friends and relatives, some of whom are more visible than others, but who are concerned for my welfare in some way or other, and who are willing to assist me in varying degrees should I need help at some point.

I have time. Time to sit and think, to analyze and examine problems, circumstances which may arise, or plans for the future. This time is built into my life by the Society in which I live. No constraints are placed upon its use, and I can share that time, or keep it for myself.

I have access. Access to information, to the political process, to those who have new or differing ideas. Whether I can change that political process or those differing ideas is a matter for argument, but at least I am aware that they exist, and I am allowed to speak of them, or to them, without fear of reprisal beyond the scorn of others who also have the right to speak their thoughts.

So, essentially I have most things I need to live comfortably in a physical and intellectual sense. So, what is missing?

 It is true that I have recently ended a very long and deep relationship, so I do not have a wife or partner. This was no light decision, and it is complicated and cuts deep. The causes were many and very tangled, and my own sanity played a part in it. It was no fault of hers, she is who she is, but the circumstances of my life had changed, and what was bearable for so long, eventually became impossible. So I guess I could say that a partner is missing from my life right now. But is "missing" the right word?

I miss her, yes. But she is not gone. We still talk. We see each other for family events, or to help each other with small things. I have not left her in search of another person. To fill a void. I cannot say exactly what has happened, but "missing" a partner is definitely not it. She is a friend, a deep, close personality who has shared so much with me, and whom I treasure greatly. She is integral to my life in so many ways, and I do not want to lose that.

No, a partner is not "missing" from my life.

So if physical, intellectual, and emotional needs are fulfilled in my life.... what is missing? Perhaps it is a philosophical thing....

I have someone whom I am proud to call a friend. He has been my friend for the best part of half a century, as I write this. He has always been a better friend to me than I have been to him. This applies to almost all of my friends. He has always been assured, focused and self-contained in his outlook. When I examine what is missing in my life, I end up looking to him and his example for the answer. The reason I look to him? He has had so many things in his life, that I have not achieved in mine, yet our background is so very similar. 

Vincent has had success in his career, achieved national and international recognition in his chosen field, travelled fairly extensively, and has achieved a reputation which allows him to be comfortable amongst the elite of his field. These things I have never accomplished. I see his life, and I see so much that is not present in my life. 

But is it "missing"? That is the question. 

Vincent has devoted his energies in worthwhile and productive ways. He has achieved a great deal of good for other people. He has contributed to the success and fulfillment of many people, and he has done it ethically and without any need for regret. I wish I could have achieved what he has done. But I don't miss it.

This is only my opinion, and I am no expert, but I think that perhaps what he has achieved has been as a result of foregoing other elements of life. I do not say he "sacrificed" them, or that he has "missed" them. He simply chose a different path. He too has a circle of friends who would come to his aid should he need it. He lives in the same society as I do, so he shares the same benefits. His life isn't "missing" anything. It's just different to mine.

I have married, he didn't. I have children, he hasn't. I didn't follow through with my studies, he did. I chose to try and make a family life, he chose a career. Not Wrong. Not Right. Just Different. 

There is nothing missing from my life right now, just as there is nothing missing from Vincent's life. The only difference is the decisions we made, and the effort we each invested in the paths we chose.  

So, finally, what is missing in my life? 

Acceptance. Acceptance of the fact that MY decisions brought me here and my life is what I make it. As much as I may envy another's life, there are hundreds who envy mine. There is nothing missing in my life except my strength of mind to change the things I do not like.

Writing My Way Back... Part 1

We all have problems, both inflicted and self-inflicted. These are the issues which define our progress forward. The problems that stymie us. The ones we overcome. The ones we avoid. All of these define our way forward. 

Some problems are material and concrete; money, housing, work, bosses, physical limitations. Others are mental, psychological; fear, repression, memory, confidence.

All of them are ours, all of them are real, all of them can be overcome in one way or another, or in some form or another. All of them can be beaten. Unless we allow them to beat us.

I am no expert in human motivation, unless failing a thousand times makes you an expert. I failed at so many things, and continue to do so. If there is one thing I have learned from my failures, it's that every time I failed, the only person that told me to quit was me.

There were times when that was good advice, but on so many occasions, it was wrong. And I have no-one to blame but me.

This all sounds so trite and smug, and full of self-knowledge, but it's not. It hurts to admit it. It is embarrassing, demeaning, and it makes me cringe when I think of the opportunities I was offered and the chances I squandered. I could have stuck with successful companies and risen through the ranks, had I only shown some humility, some self-restraint, and some respect. Instead, I turned my back on financial security, and the chance for a comfortable retirement down the road, all because I didn't want to face the obstacles that came with that role. 

Were those decisions good ones? I sometimes think they were. But when money is tight, my family is threatened, and I need to ask for help, I have often beaten myself up for not choosing the safe way, for not protecting those who rely on me. I have been known to hate myself then.

The obstacles I chose not to face, or maybe I should say I failed to face, are familiar to us all. For me, they raise the same faces, time and again. Time. I do not manage Time at all well. I procrastinate, which is another word for Lazy. I am Lazy. I don't organise my Time well. I lack Focus. I am Lazy.

If I stopped being Lazy, I would have to accept an uncomfortable Truth. That is what holds me back, not being lazy, because everyone will tell you that I work as hard as anyone at my job.

What would happen if I overcame my Laziness, my bad Time-management, my Procrastination? I can tell you, because I sat down and looked at it. If I did all those things, I would have to face my biggest obstacle.

Fear Of Failure. Not Failure, just the fear of it. As long as I avoid reaching a point of fulfilment, I can't fail. If I don't have to reach that point, then I don't have to confront that fear. That's a very comfortable place to sit. And I have sat there for a LOOOONG time.

If I never go past those obstacles, I never have to confront my fears. 

But if I never go past those obstacles..... I will always fear failure.... and we cannot succeed unless we first fail.  Children never learn to walk without first falling down. Heroes are never made without first being afraid. All That. 

And I am afraid to succeed in case I fail....

Leeroy's Truck

This story is inspired by the work of @lewbrennanartist who has a talent which is both inspiring and humbling. The artwork is copyright of Lew Brennan, and I appreciate and acknowledge his permission to use his work. 

This story is simply my interpretation of this work and is only an homage to this man's great talent.

The First Part

Somewhere, someone was using a jackhammer, and his head didn't like it. Bangbangbangbangbang... pause....bangbangbang...another pause...bangbangbangbangbang....
Leeroy groaned, What the Hell..?  It started up again. He didn't need this... He realised it had changed. Now it was as if someone was pounding on a piece of wood... with their fist...like a....door?

He opened his eyes. Oh God...it was his door. Leeroy wasn't happy. At 4 a.m. on a Saturday, Leeroy was probably three parts Jack Daniels and one part sleep. It wasn't looking good for the Pounder on the Door. You wouldn't say he staggered to the door, but it was more a controlled fall than a walk.

"Alright,alright Goddammit", he fumbled with the suddenly complicated door knob and latch, then wrenched the door open, ready to get angry... "WHAT?"
But no-one met his gaze. He looked down. She smiled at him, "Hi Leeroy. Did I wake you?"
And everything just evaporated... Those eyes...that face... that smile... Damn....

"Dammit, Gabriela, I was sleepin'", he grumbled, looking down at his bare feet, "What time is it?"
She shrugged, still smiling "Oh, about 4...maybe 5. Why?"
"Why?! Coz I was sleepin'!" he tried to be mad, and failed. Beyond her he could see the glow of pre-dawn, as the morning prepared to kick off another Summer day. It was light enough and hot enough already for him to see the faint sheen of sweat on her face and neck, above the t-shirt she wore...damn...
"Oh come on Leeroy!" she leaned towards him, grinning, one hand tucked into her jeans pocket, "I know you're a really light sleeper!"

Her accent put the emphasis on the first part of his name; LEE-roy. Nobody else ever said it like that, and Leeroy was so enraptured by it he pronounced it that way in his mind whenever he thought of himself. "LEE-roy!" She didn't know he was a light sleeper, she had never slept with him. He laughed despite his throbbing head; "You better come inside, you idiot!" He half bowed and stepped aside.

Gabriela was beyond Leeroy, beyond almost everyone. She was not remote, or above mere mortals, she was just out of reach. Gabriela had an air. She belonged to no-one, and her sense of security was wrapped up in herself. Don't mess with me, she seemed to exude. We can have a good time, but the boundaries are mine. She loved to party and hang out. She could mix it with the best (and worst)of them all. It was Gabriela who had drunk half a bottle of Tequila at a party, and then used the bottle to knock out a guy who didn't take no for an answer. Leeroy could vouch....he was there.

She was also capable of a vulnerability which could take you unawares. Certain people had found themselves parked in darkened streets, well after midnight, as the cop cars cruised, and the population slept, with the silhouette of Gabriela (never Gabby, or Bella) in the passenger seat, as she talked of her dreams, of leaving this place and making her life into something better, of her fear of being trapped in a place where she could never find the edges of her ability. Her voice would shake a little then.
 Leeroy knew this for a fact... he had sat there. 

Now she strode by him, stood in the middle of the room, looked at him and, hooking one thumb into a belt loop said; "Leeroy, I need to ask a favour" He blinked. This was way too early in the morning for this type of conversation. "Hang on" he mumbled. He looked around, considered the almost empty bottle of Jack on the table, but opted for water instead. "Lemme sit down for a minute..." She waited, standing still, almost lounging, but alert, aware... those eyes... those lips... Damn...

He drank half a glass, breathed, reassessed, looked at her standing there, waiting, and breathed deep once more. "Ok, he said "What's going on?"
She shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, maybe because he had slowed the pace. Taken her momentum away. Then she gathered herself, looked him square in the face and with a serious expression said... "I need to borrow your truck."

Leeroy waited for the rest of it.  She didn't speak...
"Is that it? You woke me up at Too Damned Early O'clock on Saturday morning to ask to borrow my truck??!!" He laughed and drank more water, "Course you can. Goodnight!" he made to stand up...
"It's not that simple, Leeroy." she said, and sat down with him. "I might need it for a while." He frowned, "That's okay. How long?"

 She shrugged, non-committal. "I dunno. Something's come up...an opportunity. And I need to do this while I can. I need wheels, and you know I love your truck..." she seemed a little lost, half -way between pleading and joking. Leeroy sensed this was serious.. "Okay, you can have it, but you need to be straight with me." He was waking up and sobering up at the same time. "Have you got trouble, Gabriela?"

 She shrugged, looking suddenly uncertain, "Maybe."
"Brandon?"
She shrugged again, silent.

Leeroy made his choice. "When do you need it?" 

She looked up, "Today. This afternoon."

 He nodded. "Come by about three. That okay? Are you safe until then?"
 She nodded.
"I have to settle accounts and such in town, and do some packing." She half smiled, "I heard he's coming back tomorrow." 

Leeroy wanted to hold her, but she left before he could move.

The Second Part

When Leeroy first laid eyes on Gabriela, he was an oversized thirteen year-old, with clumsy hair and an awkward stance, standing at the gate on the first day of the school year. He saw the new kid; maybe three years younger, oversized dress, dark complexion, pony-tail, scared eyes and uncertain. His Dad kicked in immediately. "C'mon", he said, nudging his companion, "Let's go."

"What?" said Erwin, who had been scanning for girls. "Where?", but he followed.

"Hi!" he said,"I'm Leeroy. This is Erwin. Are you okay?"

The big eyes looked up, almost brimming.

 "First day?" 

The eyes nodded.

"That's okay. We'll help you out. So what's your name?"

"Gabriela", the voice was small, and the single word had betrayed the lilt of Latin.

And Leeroy said, as his father had taught him., "I'm very pleased to meet you, Gabriela", not knowing that what he said had probably never been uttered in that school yard for a hundred years.

  And Leeroy took her by the hand and led her away. Erwin, looking over his shoulder in a wistful way,  followed along.

Leeroys' Dad worked the pipeline. In this town, if you weren't a Rancher, or worked in the town, you worked the pipeline. It was tough, but his Dad was tough. He had been a Marine, had served his time, and had instilled certain standards in his children.

So when Leeroy saw a scared and vulnerable new-chum, Leeroys lessons kicked in.

And so it had begun. This wild and complex dance of Time and Memory. Of Rebellion and Honour. Of Friendship and Longing. Of Right and Wrong. Of Leeroy, Gabriela, and Erwin.

It's not that simple of course. Life never is simple. We try and make it sensible by leaving out the details that really tell the story, just so we can get the story told and reach that final conclusion. Real stories don't have conclusions, though. Real stories have chapters, pauses, segues, a sense of continuation. So Leeroy's story goes way back. Let's just hit the high points.

Leeroy was the eldest of two. His sister, Emmy, was two years younger. Leeroys' Dad was Martin, his Ma was Ellen, and they were not complicated people. Sometimes preconceptions are made when folk are described as "not complicated". There are those who assume it means "not smart", or "slow", or "easily confused". Perhaps these preconceptions are sometimes correct. Often they are not.

Martin and Ellen were not complicated in that they lived simply, worked hard, held to their beliefs, both politically and spiritually, and tried to treat the world as they wanted to be treated. Perhaps in a complicated city they would have been seen as oddities, although there seem to be quite a few people like them everywhere, if you look.

Leeroy's Dad worked on the pipeline, and was often away for weeks on end. Early on,  Leeroy had been instructed on being the responsible male of the house while Martin was away. "You have your chores to do," his Dad would say, "And it's up to you to look after your Ma and Emmy. Treat them like the ladies they are, and act like a proper man."

The picture of that "proper man" was gradually made clear as Leeroy got older, and his father talked more. Martin had clearly defined standards that he not only tried to live up to, but expected Leeroy to understand as well. Sometimes, at the dinner table, Leeroy would be told some rule or principle which he instinctively knew was important. "Don't ever forget," his Dad would say, resting his hands, still holding knife and fork, on the table's edge,"You're expected to always pull your weight. And then pull a little bit more, to make up for those too sick or weak to pull all theirs." Or "If you're stronger than someone, don't ever use it against them unless you have to, but if someone's weaker than you and needs your strength, it's your duty to help them in any way you can." Leeroy wasn't a genius, but he thought long on these impromptu lessons, given in unexpected moments. 

Once, when Leeroy was about twelve, his Dad was home, sitting and watching TV. Leeroy sat on the couch with him, savouring his father's presence. Martin had a beer in his square, calloused hand, and was probably half-dozing, when a scene in the show made him react. "Damn, I hate that!" he snapped, and looked across at Leeroy. "You see that? He hit her!. No excuse. No excuse. Don't ever hit a woman, son." Leeroy nodded, aware of the seriousness in his father's tone. Then his father chuckled; "Actually, that's not true, son," and he smiled "There's one occasion when it's okay to hit a woman. You know when that is?"

Leeroy shook his head.

"When she misses you with the first shot." and he grinned for a moment, before saying "but no other time."

There were other things, of course. His Mother, ever practical, fussed over his appearance, his unruly hair, his shirts which refused to stay tidily tucked in. She enforced his daily chores, and mopped up his skinned knees. Once, when he was ten, Leeroy had come home with scars of battle all over his face. Black eye, bleeding nose, tears in his eyes. She had looked at him and said "Was it for a just cause?" Leeroy didn't know what she meant and his face told her so. "The fight,"she said "Was it for something good?" 

"They were throwing stones at a stray dog. It...it couldn't get away." 

"Fair enough", she replied, " But I don't know what your Daddy's gonna say when he gets home tomorrow." And she took him in to dress the wounds.

Leeroy's Dad said only one thing. 

"Son, sometimes you have to duck and weave a bit."

So Leeroy started boxing lessons.

And then there was Erwin. 

Everybody knows an Erwin. He's that skinny kid with the big grin and about a serve too much cheek than is good for him. 

Leeroy and Erwin hit it off from day one, Grade One. Leeroy, bigger than most, but gentle by nature. Erwin small and lean, never afraid to joke around and push just that little bit more. Neither of them fitted into any one group comfortably, so they gravitated. Leeroy was happy to let Erwin make the running. He was always full of ideas, even if some of them were definitely bad ones. Erwin could start conversations without the self-consciousness that Leeroy felt. He could joke and clown around with others, and gradually pull Leeroy into the circle. It helped Leeroy's shyness a lot.

On the other hand, Erwins' mouth could get him into trouble at times, and Leeroys' presence was a comforting reinforcement when Erwin said one thing too many. 

Erwin was the eternal optimist. "It's gonna work out O.K." He would say, usually after some escapade had ended in a scuffle, or a stand-off, or on one occasion, a trip to the Principal's Office. "My Daddy says everything works out O.K. in the end."

"That's great." said Leeroy, "But can you keep me out of trouble until it does?"

Erwin only laughed and grinned up at him.

But Erwin was a friend. He always helped Leeroy with homework and projects, always included him on adventures. Erwin lived on his family's cattle ranch, some miles out of town, and often Leeroy would be invited to stay over. And to be honest, there were times when Erwins wit got Leeroy out of trouble, too. Not that Leeroy backed down from trouble, but sometimes it was too much trouble, even for Leeroy.

Leeroy and Erwin, two small town kids, growing up together. 

Then along had come Gabriela.

The Third Part

By the time Leeroy and Erwin turned sixteen, the pattern had been set. The boys were bosom friends, enjoying growing up, and Gabriela tagged along. Perhaps that isn't quite true. Initially, she just never went away. After that first day of school, Gabriela, alone and lonely, found her two rescuers wherever they went. In the school ground, after school, on weekends. At some point they would realise she was there, just being close by. 

Erwin had thought she was a pest. Well, when anyone was watching, that is. When they were alone, he would fuss over her a little, asking if she was hungry, stuff like that. 

Leeroy, well he was just too soft-hearted to shoo her away. 

They discovered that her mother worked at the hospital, that she didn't have a dad, and that they had "moved a lot". 

"She's only ten," said Erwin, "How often is "a lot" for a kid like that?" For two boys born and raised in the one town, this was a new concept.

Gradually Gabriela became a part of the partnership. 

For Leeroy, she was someone to look out for, someone to protect. For Erwin, she was an ever-present audience, and someone he could show off a little to, without getting the rolling eyes that Leeroy often threw at him. Between the two, she became a surrogate sibling. They taught her stuff, gave her advice, pretended to ignore her until she burst into tears, then laughingly consoled her until she smiled. 

To Gabriela, they were the family she had never known.

What the hell was wrong with a man, he wondered, as he walked outside. After Gabriela had left, Leeroy (LEE-roy!) had made coffee, drank too much of it, showered, and then shaved. SHAVED! On a Saturday morning! A man had gone mad.... 

It was time to get a grip...

He looked at her as she stood in the carport, and smiled to himself. She was never going to be beautiful, but Damn, she was bold.

Solid as a day's work, and built to last. He lifted the hood and checked the oil, water and brake fluid. That V8 had done him proud over the years, and although the paint was well past new, it was far from untidy, and the old girl still turned heads. Leeroy decided he had better clean out the rubbish from under the seat....

She arrived at 2.30, walking around the corner of the street as he pulled into the driveway after filling the tank and checking the tyres. She wore the same t-shirt and jeans, but with a straw cowboy hat, the kind Mexican ranchers and attractive women favour, and a denim jacket, slightly out of place on this hot day. She was the kind of woman that could carry that incongruity and make it work. A pair of sunglasses poked out of the top pocket of the coat. A single duffel bag over her shoulder was her luggage. Leeroy stepped down from the F100; "She's ready to go. Look after her, okay?"

Gabriela nodded, then smiled, "Don't worry Leeroy, We'll look after each other."

"Well that's okay then." he said, and then, suddenly, he had no words left. 

Abruptly, he walked inside, his throat tightening with each step.

She threw her bag on the tray of the truck, and tied it down with a rope. She opened the truck door, got in, adjusted the seat and the mirrors, put on her sunglasses and waited. After a time, she got out, walked to the door of the house and repeated her jackhammer exercise. This time the response was much quicker. 

"Hi Leeroy!"she smiled "Getting ready to go now."

He looked at her, his eyes may have been red; "Okay, Gabriela".

She reached out and took his hand, her eyes never leaving his. "Walk me out to the truck."

When they reached the big Ford, she stood by the door and looked at him sideways from behind her mirrored shades. "Hey Leeroy, do you recognise the jacket?" 

He looked more closely at the battered and faded coat. "That's Erwin's jacket!" he exclaimed, "How the Hell did you get that?"

"Stole it." she said, straight-faced. "He would have never given it to me."

"Damn straight! He loves that thing!"

She moved then, and wrapped her arms around him in a crushing embrace. burying her head into his chest. 

Leeroy hesitated, then returned her embrace, holding her close, tears falling down his face. For a long moment they were still, and then she spoke; "You know why I stole his jacket?" His reply was muffled as he kept his face crushed into the top of her hat, "Why?"

"Same reason I need your truck. You and Erwin have been my safety net, my security. You never tried to hurt me, you always looked out for me, and you only want the best for me. I need to take something of you with me..."

Leeroy lifted his head, "Well let me come too, I'll look after you, you know I will." 

She looked at him, tears running from beneath her shades "No. It wouldn't work. I'm too driven to be gone from here, and you are too happy being good in this town. The city would kill a gentle person like you, and I would leave you behind. But thanks. Thanks for everything."

She let go and walked to the truck. He walked up behind her as she climbed in, and as she slammed the door, said "So where are you going? You never told me." 

She looked straight ahead. "East" she said, "I've had an offer... y'know...Fame and fortune.."

He placed his hand over hers; "Well if anyone can get that, you can."

She turned her head to look at him, then suddenly kissed him full on the lips, as she had never done before. She stroked his face and squeezed his hand, then cranked that V8 and spat gravel down his driveway as she left.

Leeroy knew he would never see her or his truck again. Brushing his fingers across his lips, remembering her kiss, he figured that was a fair exchange.

Epilogue

Two days later, a jackhammer started up again on Leeroy's door. This time he was ready for it, and walked calmly and quietly to end the commotion. 

He was wide awake, sober, and dressed this time.He opened the door and regarded the figure standing there with a genial smile. Leeroy's hands were clasped behind his back and he was totally relaxed. "Well I must say I have been expecting you, Brandon."

"You know where she is, don't you Leeroy? People say you helped her run out on me."

Leeroy smiled and pulled the shotgun from behind his back....

"That Tequila bottle didn't teach you a damned thing, did it Brandon?

Step inside,son. We're gonna have a little chat." 

      

The Journey.

The Journey

It stood above the platform, not level with it, like modern trains. I always felt that you should climb aboard a train, not just walk onto it. Climbing up made the transition from everyday life into an adventure and took you into a world of possibilities.

A skinny arm reached, grasped the rail beside the door, and he stretched up his leg onto the step. “Are you okay? Want me to help?” I asked. “No. I’m fine.” He said, not looking at me, focusing on the effort to get on board. He heaved himself up, then turned and looked triumphant. “See?” he grinned.

The carriage was a moment in Time. Varnished wooden windows with chrome catches to raise and lower them. Vinyl bench seats, facing each other, that were just comfortable enough to tolerate, but you wouldn’t want to live with them. The scent of wood, and oil, and a vague sense of decay. A moment in Time.

He sat facing back, claiming the window on that side, legs swinging, face towards the glass. I sat opposite, remembering myself at his age, excited and expectant. Carriages like this had not been antique back then. “Are we going soon?” he asked, all impatience and smiles. I smiled back “Yes Hunter, we’re going soon.”

The carriage filled up quickly, adults and children, jostling and chattering. The kids talking too loudly, the parents smiling apologies and shepherding excited offspring. Realising that space was becoming scarce, I motioned for him to come and sit on my lap, freeing a seat for someone else. He hesitated, unwilling to surrender his prime position. “O.K. How about I sit over there, and you sit on my knee?” He considered for a moment, then agreed. I moved, positioned him facing the window, and watched as the world began to move backward.

He was remarkably quiet, fascinated with the scenery, the movement. Then he suddenly asked, without taking his eyes from the countryside, “Did your Grandpa take you on train rides when you were little, too?” I shook my head slightly, “No, little man, but my Dad did. He worked for the railway, so we used trains a lot.” I could see the wonder in his face, “Wow! How cool is that?” Grinning, remembering, all I could say was “Yes, Hunter, it was pretty cool.”

Noticing where we were on the journey, hearing the warning whistle from the engine, I leaned forward; “Get ready, we’re going into a tunnel.” His face lit up. Then Darkness rushed about us and the magic rose to a new level. The wonder, excitement, and adventure overcame him, and he threw his arms around my neck in delighted fright.

In that moment, in the dark, I caught our reflection in the glass. An old man, my father’s face, with eyes saddened by time, and a small head nestling into my shoulder.

Frozen in Time.

Etched in Memory.

Hunter and Me.

K.C.C

6 July 2019.

Screwdriver

"Give me a minute.."
I waited.
This was not unusual.
The silence, punctuated by his rhythmic breathing, stretched out into a long minute. He stared into the middle distance, legs extended, crossed at the ankle, one forefinger crooked across the bridge of his nose, calculating.
I assumed he was calculating, but I could never be sure. He would sit motionless, the thought process  unvoiced. Perhaps he was casting into memories, fishing up similar occasions, and how they were handled. Or maybe he was reminiscing about friends now gone. Or maybe silently cursing my intrusion into his meanderings. I never knew.
Then...
"I'll be back in a minute." Both hands pushed on the arms of the chair as he heaved his bulk upright and set off down the stairs. For a big man he moved with surprising ease and smoothness. I watched as he walked to the shed, arms swinging slightly, palms facing back. Each step deliberate, a solid statement of a man firmly connected to the planet, and comfortable with his place on it. Head down, he whistled to himself. It was an aimless tune, much as another man would puff a pipe, or chew gum. It was something that got you from one place to the next, without having to consider the journey.

I waited some more. In the distance I could hear him moving around in the shadows of the corrugated iron and slab-sided work shed. The clatter of tools, opening and closing doors and lids, then a quiet curse.
Silence.
A brief flurry of noise as two or three things were picked up, and he re-appeared in the doorway, looking down at the items he carried.

He walked the path back towards me, brown shoes crunching on stones. Grey shirt tucked into faded work shorts. You never saw Dad's shirt hanging out, unless after heavy labour, or when he was getting dressed for a formal occasion, and even then it was temporary, a phase of the process.
The shirt was old, becoming threadbare. Double breast pockets holding chewing gum, a pencil, and often a packet of Life-savers, for himself and any Grandchildren who may happen to arrive. The seam above the left-hand pocket carried a small "King Gee" label.

He arrived, dropping his items into the tray of the ute, clattering them on the metal. Two screwdrivers and a block of wood. "So where's the problem." It was a statement more than a question. I pointed out the heavy screw, recessed into the corner of the wooden chest that sat in the back of the ute. "I need to get that out." he looked and rubbed one long finger across the top of the screw, gauging the depth of the recess.
 "Why?", he didn't believe in fixing things that weren't broken "it seems to be doing the job."
"It's not original," I said. "That's a mortise and tenon joint that somebody put a screw through to hold it in place. If I want to bring the box back to original, I have to get it out."
"But you don't want to ruin the timber to do it." his eyes had not left the screw as we spoke.
"No."
"No lubricant you can use?"
"I don't want to risk staining the wood, Dad"
Frowning, "It doesn't seem too hard. I would've thought you could handle that"
"Normally I would", I said "But I thought you might have a neater way to do it." I also enjoyed watching his solutions to little problems. The tiny innovations he found would always give me a secret delight. "Besides, you can see that I gave it a try."
"Yeah." he bent closer to examine the scratched and deformed screw head, it's single slot broadened and bent out of true by my efforts. "What did you use, a wrecking bar?"
"Thanks, Dad."
He grinned.
"Let's see what we can do. After a cuppa."
And he turned and headed inside.

Later, leaning on the side of the vehicle, he shuffled the tools into the shadow cast by the box,. The clear day held the hint of Winter in the air, but the sun was still hot enough to make unattended tools too hot to handle. "Oh well, at least the wood's nice and warm. That will help." Already he was delighting me. "Very clever." I said. "Warm timber is more pliable. But won't the screw have expanded in the heat?"
"Not enough to make a difference. Let's see how we go. Pass me that lump of wood."
I hefted the piece of hardwood. It was small enough to grasp easily, and almost as long as my forearm. No point in asking what it was for, Dad preferred to show, rather than tell.
He took the timber and tapped it lightly on the top of the tray absently, and eyed the screw.
Without a word, he picked up the larger of the two screwdrivers and fitted it into the recess. Any bigger and it would not have fitted. How did he know to bring that particular one, when he hadn't looked at the box before going to the shed?
"I'd normally use a cold chisel, but somebody borrowed mine and hasn't brought it back!"
"Not guilty." I said.
"Didn't say you were."
He positioned the screwdriver over the screw head and I realized what the timber was for. A preliminary tap-tap on the handle of the screwdriver, followed by a solid blow. "Couldn't find my mallet either." I pitied the poor soul who was neglecting to return Dad's tools. He didn't fly into rages, but he could reduce you to jelly with a comment and a tone. Whack! went the timber again.
His fingers were long, and on a different man, his hands would have been called slender, but the muscles were large and firm, blurring the length of the hand into a squareness that made them capable rather than artistic. Whack!

He stopped and examined the results. "That's a bit better." I looked, our heads almost touching above the corner of the box. The slot of the screw had been broadened and deepened by the blade of the screwdriver, negating my handiwork somewhat. He moved his hands, and I stepped back, an adult student, watching years of experience and co-ordination work seamlessly. He could have told me how to do it, in fact I knew how to do it, but he would never consider that. He would never expect someone else to do a job that he could do himself.
Whack!
"And one for luck" Whack!

He picked up the other screwdriver from its shaded resting place, and I saw that the blade was shortened, thickened and blunter than it's counterpart. This allowed the blade to fill the slot completely, and allowed no lateral movement. He grasped the handle firmly, one hand enveloping it completely, with the other covering the first in a locking embrace. He bore his weight down upon it, elbows out and down. I could sense the tension across his shoulders and down through his chest, back and stomach. He braced, motionless, then imperceptibly, silently, he rotated his entire body to the right, just an inch. The blade turned a fraction. He reset his stance. Again, another fraction. Again. Another fraction. Sweat was showing through the shirt, the sun cast his shadow sharp on the ground. The trees were still, almost with an air of expectancy, as he set his stance again. And turned.
He didn't look up, made no sound, and didn't relax until the screw head was clear of the hole, and had pushed the curling edges of the wood around the hole up and away. By then it was easily turned with one hand. He wiped sweat out of his eyes. "Stubborn bugger," he panted. "But we got 'im" and he grinned. "Fancy a cuppa?"

Later, as I heaved the box back into my own workshop, my wife came out the house and leaned against the door frame. "You were gone for ages. I thought you were just going to get that screw out. I bet you've been sitting around drinking tea all afternoon."
I thought of the sweat on his shirt, the long fingers and capable hands. Pictured him gathering up the tools from the back of my ute "So they don't disappear over to your place", and the steady tread of his steps, walking down to the shed, whistling softly.
"Well, yes. We did have a cuppa." She smiled and pushed off from the doorway; "I'm sure he enjoyed the chat. I just hope you didn't waste the whole afternoon"
The image of him sitting, thinking, one finger across his nose, ankles crossed, came into my mind. "No," I said "It definitely wasn't wasted."

Cooran Station

It stood as it always had; resolute, stalwart, in that old-fashioned way that modern buildings often failed to master. In forsaking the boring, square lines of function, he thought, modern architecture had also lost longevity and confidence.
He put the suitcase down and flexed his aching hand, remembering.
He hadn't seen this place for years, and it comforted him to stand across the rails from the platform and see the bright white of the paint, feel the solid reassurance of the timber-work.
So many chapters of his life were defined by this little station, this momentary yet vital stop on the long line between North and South.

Here was the memory of milk churns, cream churns, crates of fruit, groceries, bags of fertilizer. And suitcases. Here was where he had welcomed or fare-welled so many, where he had climbed aboard, or stood and waved as family, friends, or lovers had rolled away, both North and South.

Here was his memory of newspapers, telling of world events, and of gossips telling of local ones. This had been shelter from storms, shade from the summer sun, a sanctuary from the bullies, and later, a late-night lovers tryst.

As the Westering sun illumined the distant clouds, dwarfing this place that held so much, he picked up the case, smiled a fond farewell to this touch-stone of his life and walked toward the town....
his travelling days were done.

Orange Cafe

 Orange Cafe

This haven, a centre of the The World.

A place where things are shinier than home, and yet the patina of use makes them comfortable, and warm.

Neutral ground. New generations find a space for their future, and yet rub shoulders with Establishment Elders in quiet conversation. 

An acknowledged camaraderie of comfort and familiarity. 

Deceptively cool, with shadowed calm, and a touch of Laminate and Chrome,

Wrapped in the strength of History.

Right here in our town. 

The Holiday (EDIT)

Part 1

The place was a hulk, truth be told. It had been a house, back when his Grandfather had drawn the farm in the Land Lottery; when they had parceled up the huge landholdings for the soldiers returning from the Great War. It was a relic of the bigger property, a managers' house, fallen into disuse well before. Grandfather had built his own house and this had remained empty. Gradually, in typical country practicality, it was simply called "The Other House".

After Grandfather died, his father had upgraded machinery, and needing extra storage, knocked out the inner walls of the building and turned it, as nearly as possible, into a shed. It was not terribly practical, with steps and narrow doorways, but it served its purpose, in a pinch. Any excess hay stored there was always known as "Other House Hay", to differentiate it,  because it tended to be of lesser quality. It was used only sporadically, when seasons were exceptionally good. Looking at it today, it showed its age, sagging in the weary way old houses do. Still solid, but unhappy with the long years and no respite.

This was a good season. In thirty-odd years since taking over from his father, Tom had rarely seen the place looking so good. The livestock were glossy, content to laze in paddocks of green, and crops were well above average. The hay crop had yielded so well that both the big shed and the Other House were full of fresh-baled hay, enough for their needs and more, for the rest of the year. Tom felt content and allowed himself a smile as he tipped his hat back on his head and watched the last of the bales going into the old house. He leaned his tall, spare frame against the tractor's rear wheel, a half-smile on his face. Could this be the year? He barely dared hope, but the thought, the notion, was there.

He walked over to to where the men were waiting, shook hands and organised their payment. He could have baled and loaded it himself, but a crop this big was a lot of work, and he felt he could afford to bring the contractors to save his aging bones. With a final wave, he climbed up on the tractor and drove back to the main house. The thought nudged at the back of his mind.

Emily was in the garden, tending her peas. This time of year was busy for her as the garden tended to try and get out of control. Her thin hands, toughened by daily labour, wound the tendrils of the peas deftly into the wires while her eyes roamed across the garden beds, noting a curled leaf, a snail, a tell-tale chewed plant from an invading grasshopper. Her garden was her domain, and she managed it with a quiet efficiency. Those that upset the neat progress of her plants were dealt with summarily.

Hearing the tractor approaching, she straightened, plucked the snail from under its hiding place, twisted the curled leaf from a tomato plant, and tossing the snail over the fence to her hens, made a mental note to come back later, grasshopper hunting. Dusting her hands on her apron, she headed for the kitchen to make tea.

Washing his hands at the tap on the corner of the house, Tom allowed the water to run as he lathered the sliver of soap kept there. Normally such a waste would have been unthinkable, but the tanks were full, and more rain was coming, so he indulged himself, smiling at this little extravagance. Then, hanging his hat on the peg by the door, leaving his boots on the top step, he walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

"How's it going?" asked Emily, bringing the teapot and sitting down opposite him, cups and plates already waiting on the wooden table top. "All done", said Tom, as she poured the tea. "They've just put the last of it into the Other House. The shed and the house are both full to the brim. I gave Harvey a few bales for himself, I had no room for them anyway."
She nodded and sipped her tea. "Well that's good. Looks like we will be right for the year." He nodded, dunked a biscuit, and chewed thoughtfully. "Is the garden still  doing well?" he asked.
"Yes... a little too well. I've got snails and grasshoppers. Not badly, but a few are turning up." He grunted quietly, and then the thought came back, stronger this time."Em...I've been thinking...do you reckon you could get Sophia to come and look after the house for a while?" He looked across to gauge her reaction; "For a fortnight or so?" he added. She was puzzled, and looked back at him with a frown. "I suppose I could ask. Why?"

 He leaned back in the chair, bracing both hands on the table edge, and took a deep breath; "Well, it's like this... and it's just an idea right now, but I thought...well.. maybe you and I could have a holiday. Just us."

Emily calmly and quietly placed her cup on the table, then looked up at him. "And how are you going to make that work?" She had been married to him for a long time and was not afraid to challenge him. He was a cautious man, and this was an unusual proposal. They had not been away from the property together for any extended time since the children had moved away. A sudden thought made her ask; "Is everything alright? Are you alright?"

He smiled then, and held up both hands "Yes, yes, everything's fine. I'm fine. I just thought you'd like a holiday!"
"Well of course I would, but where...how?"
"Oh well," he replied, "I thought maybe we could go to the coast, drop in on the kids for a day or three..."
She interrupted; "But how, Tom? Do you think the season is that good?"
He grew serious. "Yes, I do." He leaned forward and gestured toward the outside,"Look Em, the big shed is full to bursting. Even if Winter is really hard this year, we will have enough for our needs. If I sell half of the Other House hay, even with the lower prices we're bound to have, that will pay for a fortnight away, and we will still have hay in the Other House to see us through. I think we deserve a break. Get Sophia to mind the house. She can have the garden produce as payment. She'll love it."
Emily looked at him steadily, not quite daring to hope; "And who will look after the farm?"
He had expected this question, and was ready.
"Well", said Tom, "If we wait until Henry's boys next door are home from college, they can keep an eye on things, and I'll pay them something when I get back. C'mon Em! It's been years, and God knows you could do with a rest!"
She smiled a little shakily, and picked up her empty cup. "All right, I'll look into it, but no promises!"
Her eyes were shining as she poured more tea.

Part 2

Emily made plans. They would have to wait a couple of months before Henry's boys came home, and Tom had to sell the hay before they could leave. That didn't mean she couldn't plan, though! Brochures came and prices were discussed. Clothes were considered, then dispatched to oblivion; new clothes would have to be bought. Emily felt the excitement growing. She had never regretted the life she had chosen, and would make the same choice again, but holidays were a rare luxury on a small farm. This would be the first vacation in over ten years. She was determined to enjoy it. The garden pests trespassed at their peril.

Tom was equally determined to make everything go smoothly. This was too good an opportunity to miss. He and Em had worked hard and it was time they allowed themselves to relax. The farm was in his blood, and he had always accepted the seven-day-a-week responsibility, but Emily had been a town girl. She had surrendered social life, weekends, regular holidays and a career, to become a farmer's wife. She had adapted, worked alongside him, juggled children and farm work, taken a job in town when times were tight, and had planted her garden to help make ends meet. The children had made it clear they wanted no part of life on the land, so it was just the two of them. She had missed so much, he thought, and here was his chance to pay some of that back.

Tom drove over and called on Joe Thompson. Tom had bought a bull from Joe some years before. Joe had been doing it tough. It was a bad time to be in beef, and Tom had gambled on grain that year. The bull was well past his prime, and Tom didn't really need a bull, but Joe needed a leg up. Tom bought the bull, kept him for a season, then quietly retired him.

Joe was doing better now. Tom made the offer; half of the "Other House" hay, to be collected as required, but bought at slightly above market price. Joe recognized the symmetry....this was how you repaid kindnesses without having to feel indebted. This was how small farmers kept their pride.
The handshake was firm. They looked each other in the eye. Tom felt good.
With that settled, it was only a few more weeks and the adventure would begin....

Part 3

The repeated beeping of a motorbike horn, mingled with the revving engine, woke Tom from a deep sleep. It was black in the bedroom, and he was momentarily disoriented. Fumbling for the light, he looked at the clock; 3.45 a.m.. What the Hell was going on?
Emily awoke. "What's wrong?" she mumbled. "Dunno" said Tom, and lunged for the window, where a light was flashing across the glass.
Lifting the frame, he saw a trail bike with a dark figure astride. "Tom!" came a voice, "It's me, Luke. The Other House is on fire!"
Tom puzzled for a moment. Luke. That was Henry's boy, home from college. Then; A fire? Hell! The hay! He reeled back into the room, "The hay's on fire! Bloody Hell! I've gotta go!" Dragging on clothing, he raced outside.

Luke waited, revving the bike. "We saw the light from our place. Dad and Sam are coming with a pump and the water truck. I'll meet you there!" and he was gone, racing the bike into the night. Throwing a pump and a coil of hose into the ute, Tom raced after him, calculating. The Other House was a mile away, behind his house, so he could not have seen the light of the flames. A breeze was blowing the smoke away, towards Henry's place. Henry's instincts would have made him investigate, and, seeing the flames, he would have reacted immediately. The unwritten rules of farm etiquette allowed him to cut the boundary fence and drive straight across to assist in preventing a disaster. Nobody allowed a neighbour to suffer....
"Oh God....All that hay..."

  It was too late by far when he arrived. Henry and his sons had started pouring water into the flames, and the smell of smoke, wet hay and fire permeated the air. Hay fires are different to to normal fires. They start slowly, insidiously. Their gradual formation is a combination of heat from compressed green vegetation, lack of ventilation, and the presence of the hay itself, an excellent fuel. When hay is stored correctly, these risks are minimised, but the Other house had minimal ventilation, with narrow doorways and small windows. Once the hay combusted, it was impossible to stop.

They tried. Nobody could deny that they tried. They poured every drop of water into the inferno. They ran; dragging individual bales to safety, fighting the smoke, yelling to each other. The flames raged on, consuming, driving them back with its heat, until finally all they could do was stand and watch, as the whole building roared in flames that would consume everything and take two days to finally die. Somewhere in the depths of it all, Emily came. She stood beside Tom, weeping softly. She knew what this meant. She understood their loss. He put his arm around her and felt her sag against him, lost for strength. She had no more to give. Her hope had been stripped away.

Part 4

As dawn broke, shedding further light on the destruction, he sent Henry and his boys back to the house with Emily for breakfast. Emily welcomed the distraction, the chance to do something that took her thoughts away from the disappointment of the night.It was the least they could do for their neighbours. Henry paused as he walked past, clasped Tom's shoulder and murmured "I'm sorry, Tom."  Tom nodded his appreciation. Emily would cook bacon and eggs for them. They had failed, but they had tried, and they knew Tom and Emily would do the same for them.
Tom watched them go, and only when they were out of sight did he allow himself the great wracking sob that he held inside. He dropped to his knees before the still burning wreckage of his dream, and cried sooty tears of grief. The sobs robbed him of sound and tears blinded him, streaking his face.

Finally he sat back on his heels and regarded the ruin that had promised so much, but now only guaranteed hardship. He looked, thought, then gritted his teeth. Finally he spoke; "You can take what you want, you bastard, but you won't stop me now."
He rose deliberately, dusted his knees, and turned toward his ute. They could not afford to take the holiday now. The hay was gone, plus the reserve if times were hard. All farmers know that a good summer is almost always followed by a harsh winter, but he would not be beaten.

He would send Em, alone. She deserved this. He would find a way. He could stay here, this was his life, but she deserved better. She deserved to relax, to see the children, the grandchildren. She deserved to walk on the beach, to shop, drink some wine, and to rest, just rest. He would make it work somehow. He would not let this beat him....
He reached the ute, the fire still smoldering behind him.
Let it burn, he thought. It would not dictate his life.
He started the engine and drove toward the house.

THE END

For My Father

THIS MAN

This Man, father of my existence.

This Influence that persists until I die.

This Shadow, so embedded that 

Not one breath can be taken

Without reminder of his 

Presence.

This Figure, filling the doorways of memory.

Casting shadows of benign, irrevocable authority

On lives, actions, our very thoughts.

This Form, larger than Life 

When we were

 Young.

Strong and reassuring

Yet lumbering, stolid, and heavy.

A gait that spelled Certainty

of Purpose and intent

when we were 

Older.

This Rock, to be leaned upon,

Drawn upon, relied upon for Strength.

This Person, font of quiet wisdom

and Measured words.

This Partner for 

Life.

This Devotion, Patience,

 Deep Well of Understanding.

This Hero, benchmark for Life,

Who never aimed for, but

Became Iconic through his

Modesty.

This Paragon of Manhood,

Marriage, Loyalty, Commitment.

This Larger than Life man, who

Was really Just a Man, but

The Best that he could

Be.

This Father, my Father, our Father.

And Father to so many. He lived this example;

Kindness, Wisdom, and his Time

This is for him, from Us

All of Us,

Family.

True Valentine

The sun was full in his face as he reached both hands toward her, pushing her hair back from each cheekbone, until he cupped her face. Through the glare, he could see half of her smile, one eye shining, the other lost in the glory of the afternoon sun. Reaching further, his fingers reached the top of her neck, and he pulled her toward him.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this." he said, watching her mouth.
Her lips twitched nervously, "Do what?"
He kissed her, tightly, unmoving in his intensity. It was not a kiss of lust, or passion, or even romance. It seemed to hold all the pent up emotions of the last five years; his grief and anger at losing her, the longing, the loneliness, the despair and resignation, all of it was in the tight grip of his hands on her face, the pressure of his closed lips on hers, the tension in his arms.

She reacted to this intensity for a moment, then leaned into him in an unspoken understanding, and pushed him slightly onto his heels as she molded her body into his and returned the fervour of his kiss. Reaching around his waist, she pulled him close, as much to reassure him as to feel his closeness. She felt his pent-up memories and tried to convey her understanding.

For a long moment they remained frozen, locked in a private world of recollection; longings, regrets and aspirations. When he finally released her, she was crying silently, the tears reaching down her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," he said wiping them away, "Please don't cry." She shook her head, never taking her eyes from his. "I need to do this," she said, and sniffed, then smiled. "I think it's all the tears I made you cry, come back to haunt me. I'm sorry I went away."
He smiled then, his first smile in a long time; "I'm glad you came back."

He hugged her close, felt her hold him tightly, then felt her relax into him, the tension leaving her at last. "It's good to have you home", he said.

BRANDO

He looked at the road streaming toward him. The white lines and blacktop disappeared like magic under the hood of the F 100, a mesmerizing and exciting phenomenon. Then, turning his gaze to the window, he watched the countryside flicking past, and the stately progress of the distant, blue-shrouded mountains.
This, he thought, must surely be the best place to be, in the whole world.
If there were better options he certainly couldn't think of them.
He also couldn't stop grinning.

He finally turned his head from the view and looked across at Shane, who drove with eyes focused on the road, one hand gripping the wheel just a little off Top Dead Center.
Sensing his gaze, Shane turned and grinned back at him. "Good to be gone again, hey buddy?" he said, raising his voice slightly over the noise of the wind, the road, and the engine.

Brando didn't answer. He didn't need to. He just grinned a little wider, if that were possible, and turned back to the window.
Yep, he thought, This is surely the best place in the world....

The Holiday

Part 1

The place was a hulk, really, all truth be told. It had once been a house, back when his Grandfather had first drawn the place in the Land Lottery; back when they had parceled up the huge landholdings to provide land for the soldiers returning from the Great War. It had been a remnant of the the bigger property, a manager's house, fallen into disuse well before the land divisions had occurred. Grandfather had built his own house, and the original house had remained empty.

Eventually, with the advent of better machinery and techniques, there had been need for a storage shed, and a new timber and iron hay-shed had been built toward the back of the property. The old house had continued to remain empty, except for keeping the detritus of everyday life dry and out of the way. Eventually, in country practicality,  it had become known as the "Other House".

After Grandfather died, his Father had upgraded machinery, and needing the extra storage, had knocked out the inner walls of the building and turned it, as nearly as possible, into another shed. It was not terribly practical, with its steps and narrow doorways, but it served its purpose, in a pinch.
Even so, whenever excess hay was stored there, it was always known as "Other House Hay", because it tended to be the lesser quality hay that was kept there, and it was only used sporadically, when seasons were exceptionally good. Looking at it today, it showed its age, sagging in the weary way that old houses can, still solid, but unhappy with the long years and no respite.

This was a good season. In the thirty-odd years since taking over from his father, Tom had rarely seen the place looking so good. The livestock were glossy and fat, content to laze in paddocks of green, and the crops had been well above average. The lucerne crop had yielded so well that both the big shed and the Other House were full of fresh baled hay, enough for their needs and more, for the rest of the year. He felt content, and allowed himself a smile as he tipped his hat back on his head and looked at the last of the hay going into the old house. Could this be the year? He barely dared hope, but the thought, the notion, was there.

He walked over to where the men were standing, having finished the last of the unloading, shook hands and organised their payment. He could have baled and loaded it himself, and until recently, with the help of neighbours, he had. But a crop this big was a lot of work and he felt he could afford to get the contractors to come in and save his aging bones. With a final wave, he climbed up on the tractor and drove back to the main house. The thought nudged at the back of his mind.

Emily was in the garden, tending the peas. This time of year was busy for her, as her garden tended to try and get out of control. Her thin hands, toughened with daily work, worked the tendrils of the peas deftly into the wires, and her eyes roamed across the garden beds, noting a curled leaf, a snail, or a tell-tale chewed leaf from an invading grasshopper. Her garden was her domain, and she managed it with a quiet, firm efficiency. Those that upset the neat progress of her plants were dealt with summarily.

Hearing the tractor coming from the paddock, she straightened, plucked the snail from under it's hiding place, twisted the curled leaf from the tomato plant, and, tossing the snail over the fence to her hens, made a mental note to come back later and go grasshopper hunting. Dusting her hands on her apron, she made for the kitchen to make tea.

Washing his hands at the tap on the corner of the house, Tom allowed himself the luxury of letting the water run as he lathered the sliver of soap kept there for just that purpose. Normally such a waste would have been unthinkable, but the tanks were full, with more rain coming, so he indulged himself, smiling at this little extravagance. Then, hanging his hat on the peg by the door, leaving his boots on the top step, he walked into the kitchen and sat down.

"How's it going?" asked Emily, bringing over the teapot and sitting down at the table, cups and plates already waiting. "All done", said Tom "They've just put the last of it into the Other House, both the shed and the house are full to the brim. I gave Harvey a few bales to take for himself. I had no room for them anyway." She nodded and sipped her tea. "Well that's good. Looks like we will be right for the year." He nodded, dunked a biscuit, and chewed thoughtfully. "Is the garden still doing well?" "Yes... a little too well. I've got snails and grasshoppers. Not badly, but a few are turning up" He grunted quietly, and then the thought came back, stronger this time. "Em...I've been thinking... Do you reckon you could get Sophia to come and look after the house for a while?" He looked across to gauge her reaction, "For a fortnight or so?", he added. She was puzzled, and looked back with a frown, "I suppose so. I could ask. But why?"

There was nothing for it but to spill it all out. He leaned back in the chair, bracing both hands on the table's edge and took a deep breath; "Well, it's like this...and it's just an idea right now, but I thought, well, maybe you and I could have a holiday, just us two."
Emily calmly and quietly placed her cup on the table, never taking her eyes off it, then looked up at him and said "And how are you going to make that work?" She had been married to him for a long time, and was not afraid to challenge him on some issues. He was a cautious man, and this was an unusual proposal. They had not been away from the property together for more than a few days since the children had grown up and moved away. A sudden thought made her ask "Is everything all right? Are you all right?"

He smiled then, and held up both hands"Yes,yes, everything's fine. I'm fine. I just thought you'd like a holiday!"
"Well of course I would, but where...how?"
"Oh well, I thought maybe we could go to the coast and see the ocean, maybe drop in on the kids for a day or three..."
"But how, Tom? Do you think the season is that good?"
He grew serious. "Yes, I do. Look Em, the big shed is full to bursting. Even if winter is really hard this year, that shed will have plenty for our needs, and if I sell half of the Other House hay, even with the lower prices we're bound to have, that will pay for a fortnight away, and we will still have half of he Other House hay as back-up. I think we deserve a break. Get Sophia to mind the house, she can have the vegetable garden produce as payment, she'll love it."
Emily looked at him steadily, not quite daring to hope; "And who'll look after the farm?"
"Well if we wait until Henry's boys next door are home from college, they can keep an eye on things, and I'll pay them something when we get back. C'mon Em, it's been years, and God knows you could do with a rest!"
She smiled a little shakily, and picked up her empty cup. "All right, you talked me into it." Her eyes were shining as she poured more tea.

Emily made plans. They would have to wait a couple of months before Henry's sons came home, and besides, Tom needed to sell the hay before they could leave. But that didn't mean she couldn't plan. Brochures came in the mail, prices were discussed, clothes were dragged out of storage, considered, then dispatched to oblivion. New clothes would have to be bought. Emily felt the excitement grow. She had never regretted the life she had chosen, and would make the same choice again, if asked, but holidays were a rare luxury on a small farm, and this was the first one in over ten years. She was determined to enjoy it. The garden pests trespassed at their peril.

Tom, on the other hand, was equally determined to make everything go smoothly. This was too good an opportunity to miss. He and Emily had worked hard, it was time they allowed themselves to relax. The farm was in his blood, and he had always accepted the 7 day a week responsibility, but Emily had been a town girl. She had given up her social life, weekends, regular holidays, and a career, to become a farmer's wife. She had adapted, worked alongside him, juggled children and farm work, taken a job in town when times were tight, and had planted her garden and helped even more on the farm when the children had grown up and made it obvious that they wanted no part of life on the land. She had missed so much, and here was his chance to pay some of it back.

Tom called on Joe Thompson. Tom had bought a bull from Joe, some years ago; a bull well past his prime, one that Tom didn't really need. Joe was doing it tough at the time, it was a bad time for beef, and Tom had gambled on grain. Joe needed a leg up, so Tom bought the bull, kept him for a season, then quietly retired him.

 Joe was doing better now, so Tom approached him with half of the Other House hay, to be collected as required, at slightly above market price. Joe recognised the symmetry and agreed... this was how you repaid kindnesses without having to feel indebted. This was how small farmers kept their pride.
The handshake was firm and fervent. They looked each other in the eye. Tom felt good.

A few weeks more, and the adventure would begin....

Part 2

The "Beep Beep" of the motorbike horn, repeated over and over, mingled with the revving engine, woke Tom from a deep sleep. It was black in the bedroom, and he was momentarily disoriented. Fumbling for the light, he took in the display of the bedside clock; 3.45 in the morning. What the Hell was going on?
Emily awoke at the same time, reaching for the bedside light, "What's wrong?" she mumbled. "Dunno" said Tom, and lunged for the window, where a light had begun flashing across the glass.
Lifting the glass, he saw a trail-bike with a dark figure astride. "Tom!" came a voice, "It's me, Luke.
The Other House is on fire!"
Tom struggled for a moment. Luke, that was Henry's boy, home from college. A fire? Hell!! The Hay!! He reeled back into the bedroom, "The hay's on fire! Bloody Hell! I've gotta go"
Dragging on jeans, he raced outside.

Luke waited, revving the bike. "We saw the light from our place, Dad and Sam are coming with a pump and the water truck. I'll meet you there!" and he was gone, racing the bike into the night.
Throwing the pump and a coil of hose into the ute, Tom raced after him, calculating all the while. The Other House was a mile from the house, and behind it, so he could not have seen the light of the flames. The breeze blew gently away from the main house, so Henry, his neighbour on that side, would smell the smoke, and his farmer's instinct would have made him investigate. The unwritten rules of farm etiquette allowed Henry to cut the boundary fence and drive straight across to assist in preventing a disaster. Nobody allowed a neighbour to suffer....
"Oh God...All that Hay.."

It was too late by far when he got there. Henry and his sons had started pouring water into the fire, and the smell of smoke, wet hay, and fire permeated the air. Hay fires are different to normal fires. Hay fires start slowly, insidiously. Their gradual formation is a combination of heat from compressed green vegetation, lack of ventilation, and the presence of hay, a wonderful fuel. When hay is stored correctly, these risks are minimised, but the Other House had hard-to-ventilate rooms, narrow doorways, and small windows. Once the hay combusted, it was impossible to stop.

They tried, no-one could say otherwise. They poured every drop of water into the house. They ran around, dragging individual bales to safety, fighting the smoke, yelling instructions. The flames raged on, consuming the house, driving the men back with its heat, until finally all they could do was stand and watch as the the whole house roared in flames, flames that would consume it all, and take two days to finally die away. Somewhere, in the depths of it all, Emily came, and stood beside Tom, weeping softly. She knew what this meant, she understood their loss. He put his arm around her and felt her sag against him, lost for strength. She had no more to give, and her hope had been taken away.

As dawn broke, he sent Henry and his boys back to his house for breakfast. It was the least he could do. Emily left with them, to cook bacon and eggs for the rescuers who had failed, but who knew that Tom and Emily would do the same for them. Tom watched them go, and only when they were out of sight did he allow himself the great wracking sob that he had held inside. He dropped to his knees before the smoking ruin of his hopeful, happy dream, and cried sooty, smoky tears of grief. The sobs robbed him of any sound, and the tears blinded him, streaking his face, washing the dirt and fire residue from his skin.

Finally, he sat back on his heels and regarded the ruin that had promised him a holiday, but now guaranteed only hardship. He looked, thought, and slowly gritted his teeth. Finally he spoke, slowly, softly; "You can take what you want, you bastard, but you won't stop me now"
He rose deliberately, dusted his knees, and turned toward his ute. They couldn't afford to go now, the hay was gone, plus the reserve if times were hard. Everyone knew that a good summer was almost always followed by a harsh winter. But he would not be stopped.

He would send Em, alone. She deserved this break. He would find a way to pay for her holiday. He could stay here, this was his life, but she deserved better. To relax, to see the children and grandchildren, to walk on the beach, to shop, to drink some wine and rest, just rest. He would make it work somehow. He would not let this beat him...
He reached the ute,the fire smouldering behind him. Let it burn, it would not dictate his life.
 He started the engine and drove toward the house.

THE END