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.