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.