LITMIR.BIZ

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      Thomas Moore

      My father always had a vision. Unfortunately the vision was generally a moving target and was therefore never something he could run to ground; but he was always after a new idea to make money. I learned to recognise the signs of another impending scheme. When he began to sit for hours on the back steps, smoking steadily and gazing down towards the creek, I knew he was onto a plan of some kind. Dad’s ideas always brought some change and excitement to the farm and I could not wait to see what the latest project would be. I followed him eagerly into the house, as he appeared to suddenly reach some resolution, tossing his cigarette aside as he strode inside.

      ‘This place is not making us enough money to live a decent life’, he said to Mum as she struggled with the old foot operated sewing machine. ‘We gotta find a way to get in a few more quid.’

      Mum cursed as the machine jammed yet again, breaking the precious needle. She was busy making flannelette pyjamas for the whole family as winter was fast approaching, and she was now down to her last needle for the machine. ‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked guardedly, continuing with her sewing with great caution to preserve the remaining needle – the prospect of finishing the project by hand was daunting. ‘Not dressmaking I hope, this bloody machine has almost had it and my sack bag style of sewing may not be a big seller.’

      Dad looked at the few pairs of very rough and simple garments she had made so far, holding them up for a closer inspection. ‘You’re right about that much’, he said, grinning. ‘These pyjamas will be best kept covered by the bed clothes.’ He threw the offerings over the back of a chair and flopped down in the seat. ‘What I have in mind won’t involve much extra work for you and the kids, just so long as you can keep the farm going pretty much without me.’ Mum shot him a look of alarm and I caught my breath. Mum and us children did most of the work anyway, but I hoped Dad was not thinking of anything too drastic.

      ‘It sounds like you’re planning to join the French foreign legion or something’, Mum said. ‘Or are you going to rob the mail train?’

      ‘They’re both pretty good ideas, I’ll keep them in mind’, Dad said in mock seriousness. ‘But I’d like to try something a bit easier and safer as a lead up if that’s alright with you.’ I could not stand the suspense any longer. ‘What are ye gunna do Dad?’ I blurted urgently. ‘I can help, we all can, the crop in the garden is doin’ orright, we can leave it alone for a few weeks now.’ Dad grinned at me as Darryl swaggered into the house, glancing questioningly from one to the other as he propped himself momentarily against the door-jam. His thick dark brows creased, but he said nothing and came into the room to sit on the corner of the kitchen table in that placid way of his.

      ‘There’ll be a job for you blokes, don’t worry’, Dad said. ‘So long as your mother agrees with my idea.’ Mum cast him a frown. ‘You’re a clever bugger, aren’t you?’ She scorned. ‘I don’t even know what you are talking about, and already I’m set up to be the baddy in the story. Get to the point, for Christ’s sake.’

      Dad grinned smugly, convinced that he had now built a solid base for his plan and had Mum in the right frame of mind to receive the new concept, whatever it may be. He launched into his latest idea. ‘I was talkin’ to a bloke I used to knock around with in town yesty’; he began, as Mum looked guarded again.

      ‘Yes’, she said slowly. ‘I saw you outside the butter factory with a bloke I didn’t know.’

      Dad nodded his head affirmatively. ‘That was old Bert Nusky, he’s making a good quid cartin’ cordwood for the boiler at the butter factory’, he said. ‘At least he was, reckons he’s too bloody crook to keep on with it.’ Mum remained quiet and waited for him to go on. Dad cleared his throat as he often did when he was nervous. ‘He wants me to take over. He said he could get old Pearson, the boss at the factory, to let me take over the contract.’

      ‘That’s all very well love’, Mum said uncertainly, careful not to dampen his enthusiasm. ‘But aren’t you forgetting something?’ Dad looked surprised. ‘Like what?’ He asked incredulously.

      Mum waved her arms in frustration. ‘Like how will you cut it, you’d need a buzz-saw wouldn’t you?’ She cried, a bit impatiently I thought. ‘How will you cart it and where will you get the wood from?’ Dad frowned, clearly put out that she could believe he had not thought of all these minor details. ‘I can set the Hupp up with a tray body’, he said. We had recently been forced to retire the Overland utility for an old German sedan called a Haupmobile. It was a pretty rare unit I think, as I had never seen another like it. The Overland now sat dejectedly under a pepper tree in Nanna Blinco’s back yard, disabled with a seized motor.

      ‘I’ll cut the wood with the cross cut and the axe to start with’, Dad declared bravely. ‘Merv will help me when he can and the kids can help.’ Merv was Dad’s younger brother. My father looked pleased with himself for being ahead of Mum’s questions. ‘And Doug Simmons said I can cut all the wood I like from the paddock across the road, he’s only gunna burn it anyway.’

      ‘Well’, Mum said, nodding in agreement. ‘You seem to have it all worked out and you all have some time on your hands. It sounds all right and there’s no extra cost, so why not give it a go. Sounds like bloody hard work but.’ She added as an afterthought.

      ‘That’s never bothered me before’, Dad scoffed. ‘I’ll go and have a look at the Hupp now and see how I can set it up.’ He hurried from the house followed by a tribe of interested offspring. There were now two additional children in the family, both boys. Roger, the youngest was the inevitable toddler about the farm, and Geoffrey was just reaching an age when he could become part of the labour force. With plenty of brothers and sisters on call they were well spoiled and Mum was imposed upon very little regarding their care and entertainment.

      For days Dad worked on modifying the car and turning it into a utility. He removed the rectangular shaped cabin, which luckily came off in one piece after he removed a few screws and bolts. He said it would only take an hour or two to convert it back to a sedan when we needed it. With the cabin gone he removed the rear seats, exposing the bare floorboards and part of the chassis. He rigged up two hardwood runners from the remaining front seat to the rear of the unit, bolting them down to the chassis and extending them past the end of the car to create extra carrying space.

      Cord wood, Dad explained to us as he worked, must be cut to exact measurements so it would fit into the firebox of the boiler at the factory. A cord was two axe handles long and one axe handle square, and the logs were to be no more than six inches thick. Pretty crude measurements, but just a good size to pack neatly onto his newly created ‘truck’. He could cart several cords in a load, he said.

      Dad honed his two ‘Kelly’ axes to shining perfection and sharpened the old cross cut saw and set the teeth. As usual he sent Mum to town to set up the contract with the factory. She came home with a book of delivery vouchers that were to be handed in and signed off with each load to ensure we were paid for the wood.

      Dad was set to start his new venture. He threw himself into cutting the wood and we could hear his axe ringing through the bush from dawn until dark every day for weeks. Mum sent us over to the paddock three times a day with his morning and afternoon smoko’s and his lunch. He was easy to find, we simply went towards the sound of his ringing axe. He would be reluctant to stop and eat and we squatted on dry, fallen logs, or climbed into the lower branches of shady trees to watch him work. I admired Dad with proud envy as he worked. His dark skin was a bright sheen of sweat and the muscles in his arms and back rippled as he swung the axe with expert precision, the blade biting deeply and accurately into the dry wood.

      At every swing of the axe Dad gave forth a grunting sound. ‘Huff, huff, huff’, he went, for swing after swing. I tried to imitate this sound as I used the spare axe, but I could never see the benefit of it and cutting the dry wood was too hard for my under developed arms. Dad said the huffing helped him hit harder, but perhaps it helped his breathing after

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