Trigger…

For better or worse there are certain sounds, smells and images that trigger memories…

Surprisingly, yesterday when Judy and I visited the Redcliffe Show (agricultural fair) adjacent to where we entered was the wood chop competition.

Seemingly inauspicious until the sounds of the axe hitting the wood during the competition was a trigger for my memories.

I was instantly transported back to my childhood with my dad as he felled the tall eucalyptus trees with his axe.

The sound of the sharp blade contacting the solid hardwood echoed through time.  At that moment in my mind’s eye, I could see dad and the razor-sharp blade of his axe as it glinted in the dappled light of the bush.

The flash of steel as it bore down on the trunk of the tree before the crack of axe making contact reverberating around me in the bush.

The sweat glistening on his broad shoulders and his slow rhythmic breathing as he smashed into the tree for what seemingly felt like an eternity.

I find it interesting that the sound of axe on hardwood could trigger these memories…

Just hearing the axe felt like I was a kid again traipsing behind dad as he surveyed the block that he had to “cut out”.

During my childhood we had a wood stove and heater in the house and so each year we needed to acquire fuel for these.

Surprisingly, the winters in southern Australia are cold, especially as most houses aren’t insulated.

Our weatherboard, six room bungalow was built in the 1890’s and so it was draughty at the best of times…

Heating the stove all year round, irrespective of weather was imperative as it also served to heat the water.

No fire meant no hot water in the house.

So, it was with this as a backdrop that every year dad would apply to the local forestry commission for a permit to cut out a block of wood.

Generally, these were one-acre blocks that had to be cleared within a certain timeframe.

In the summer time, this meant that after a long day of working manual labour dad would head out to the block until it was dark.

Often, I would accompany him on these after dinner forays into the bush.

These rush of memories triggered fond thoughts of time spent with dad as he laboured endlessly.

He’d first begin by surveying the block, which was often an uneven surface thickly covered in a variety of eucalyptus trees.

The forestry ranger would have already come through the block and marked the trees he wanted to keep, everything unmarked had to be cleared.

Dad would find the most difficult terrain or variety of wood and begin there.

Using just his axe (we couldn’t afford a chain saw until I had left home) he would fell the trees, before roughly measuring the trunks into six-foot lengths and cut them there.

My job was once the trees had been cut into six-foot lengths to build a stack (6′ x 6′) by using a tree that was marked as the base.

Then cutting a shorter (4 feet) straight length of wood, before trimming it at one end to make it like a spear then hammering this into the ground six feet from the base of the other tree.

This would then form the basis of the stack for which I then began gathering (mostly dragging as the logs were too heavy) into the stacks.

Once I reached three feet in height, I would place a long stick over the stack to mark that it was complete.

I learned from dad where and how to build these stacks which would minimize the lift/drag or carry element to achieve my aim of getting the stacks complete.

It was tough physical work, but I now look back on it with fondness and appreciate the lessons that I learned in these formative years.

Once we had completed the clearing and making of the stacks the forestry ranger would come and count the number of stacks then based on that charge dad an amount for the wood.

However, this was just the first part of the process…

We still had to bring the wood home, then borrow a saw bench to cut them into one-foot-long lengths that would it into the firebox in the stove and heater.

If the wood was too big dad would have to use a splitter to split the wood and let it dry out before I chopped it into thinner pieces to use.

This is where I think I learned my love language – acts of service to others.  Praise was in short supply, as it was more of an expectation that this is what a son does.

Although dad wasn’t a big talker, I know that he liked having me with him when was working on the block.

Not once in my entire childhood did, I hear dad complain about the workload or the myriad of back breaking tasks that he needed to endure to keep our heads above water.

Money was always tight, and so we had to make the best of it.

Dad always made do with what he had; second hand could always be fashioned into something useful.  One of his constant sayings was “that’ll come in handy one day” as it put the found or broken piece into the shed for future use.

Nothing too big or small could escape his clutches when it came to saving it for a future project.

I was fortunate to learn these lessons of frugality early in life and in many ways to keep my expectations low and that hard work was always expected.

Treasured memories from a time long ago…

Until next week

Ciao!