First posted 23 May 2013

When I was a kid, Saturday at our house was Tennis Day and my dad played tennis. The tennis courts were a good 30 minutes walk from our house but only five minutes from the local. So Tennis Day was also a good day to have a few drinks after a set or two; the quantity of the drinks far exceeding the quantity of the tennis. Dad and I had many of our bonding sessions on Tennis Day after he had wobbled home.

Tennis Day was also often confused with hair cut day although I fell for this lark voluntarily only the once. From then on hair cut day was only preceded by a long pursuit and threats of violence. The threats of violence were not an issue; the haircut itself was more dangerous; but from time to time it was safer for all concerned to simply submit to this outrageous assault on my appearance on the assurance that clippers only would be used for the purpose. Mother hid the scissors, along with the pinking shears, the weapon of choice when the scissors were not to hand, for the welfare of my ears. It generally took two weeks and a visit to the barber before the kids at school stopped laughing at me.

Bonding with my dad was fraught; his unpredictability was highly predicable; and it was often a tense time. Haircuts aside, doing something together in the back yard was fairly safe. It was relatively easy to keep out of arms reach and we had a big back yard with plenty of space to avoid a mugging.

There was one memorable occasion after some workmen had cut down several of the trees in our back yard. My dad, rather than admit to further uselessness, had ordered them away before the logs had been turned into fire wood. That was to be his job, the hard stuff. Overly ambitious it was for when he finally got around to it the timber had dried somewhat and was more resilient than normal. Nevertheless a good axe apparently was the appropriate response and we had just the thing in our shed.

Our shed was a refuge for everything that had no proper place to live. Various implements had been tossed carelessly in there over time and had never reappeared. Tools which at the time of their purchase had shown so much promise had disappeared until they faded from memory.

Watching my dad scour the shed for anything was a perilous affair. There was no window and only one door through which various projectiles were discharged and it was wise not to be caught in the line of fire. These missiles were often accompanied with evocative annotations such as, “That’s where the bastard’s been hiding!” Hiding, the object probably was, for as much as something inanimate might have sensitivity our shed was a worthy refuge. Alas, it was not to be for the axe.

Confronted with this implement, I recalled what an axe was. It was a type of hammer used to bludgeon pointed wooden pegs into the ground around our back yard to set out the tennis court my dad had once intended to build. Two years later the set-out pegs remained standing; soldiers on duty in all weather, a silent acknowledgement of un-nurtured aspiration. Of course that was the blunt side of the axe. The sharp side was used by Mum to trim the grass away from the edge of the concrete path after I had mowed the lawns. I had little idea that this thing was in any way related to the razor sharp instruments used by those blue singleted supermen at the Easter Show who jumped about on logs and peppered us with flying wood chips as large as dinner plates. For a start it was academic which side of this axe to use, either side being as dull as the other. But apparently there was a bloke up the road who had a stone on a wheel, and he could put an edge on it, so my dad said, whatever that meant. So my dad marched off, axe in hand, to pay a visit to this bloke, to get him to put an edge on it. I tagged along for the sake of curiosity.

The bloke up the road was a mystery to me. Permanently attired, regardless of the weather, in a pair of shorts, blue singlet and bare feet; he was a surly character at the best of times. He had a couple of horses that caught my attention and I would often loiter in front of his house just for a glimpse of these animals. They apparently were trotters although I couldn’t tell the difference and the bloke, whose name was Jack, would often put them, one after the other, into a sulky and whip them around the local football field for an hour or so. I would sit on the outer fence rail until my bum went numb and watch them go around and around, lap after lap. They would grunt and fart their way into the mist and back out again until white foam appeared from their mouths and around the girth straps. Occasionally some of the local punters would ask him how he reckoned they would go which I generally ascribed to their chances of surviving the whipping and although they didn’t die they didn’t seem to do much else to satisfy the punters. I was grateful he didn’t whip them any harder. It seemed a hard but familiar life to me and it’s no surprise I developed an affinity with horses later.

Despite my interest in his horses, Jack often paid me a fearful glare as I sauntered casually past his house. No doubt he ventured that the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree and I was, by association and fault of birth, more likely to be like my father than someone of a more pleasing and productive pedigree.

Saturday afternoon was apparently a private time for horse trainers and Jack particularly resented interruptions. I imagined him reclining comfortably in his favourite chair, the form in his lap, ashtray and roll-your-owns handy, listening to Ken Howard calling the races. As such, it was a more than usual surly figure that we encountered in answer to the violent assault by my dad on the heavy wooden door with its brass knocker. He issued me with a malevolent glare which left me in little doubt as to his opinion of my future prospects. In the meantime, my dad, shuffling about in a state of complete oblivion to any potential threat, elaborated his thoughts on the condition of the axe he held up for inspection and displaying total disregard for his unwanted presence, demanded a thoroughly competent and immediate repair to the dull axe edge.

Eventually, doubtless from a greater desire to rid himself of the both of us than any act of benevolence, Jack snatched the axe away and strode off to a shed somewhere out the back. We trotted off behind.

He indeed did have a stone on a wheel. It was a big thing, decidedly larger than a car wheel, and it was propelled by energetically pumping up and down on the pedal at the side while at the same time pouring water from a bucket over the smooth creamy sandstone. Jack worked hard at his task, pumping and grinding, intermittently dipping the axe into the bucket or pouring water from it over the stone. It was hard work yet my dad seemed unwilling to lend a hand, preferring to leave such labour to the professional. Several times Jack suggested that my dad might perhaps like to assist by putting a foot to the pedal, or alternatively taking a nap on some adjacent sugar bags. My dad in turn, although he seemed more persuaded to the latter option, declined either invitation and concentrated on the improving condition of his axe.

In time it was done. Then Jack, as proof of his workmanship, shaved a stripe down his forearm with the edge of the resurrected axe. It was simultaneously menacing and impressive. I considered it was probably why his arms were so hairy. It was all that shaving.

He offered some further advice as to the axe handle, but with a barely earnest suggestion of gratitude and a promise of some reciprocation at a later date, much later I gambled and I think Jack agreed, my dad strode out the shed and headed for home. I followed closely behind having taken delivery of yet another fearful glare from Jack. At that point it was up for debate who was the most dangerous to be aligned to.

We puffed and wheezed our way home. My dad, not quite fresh from his morning pursuits, was still in his tennis clobber; Tee shirt, shorts and Dunlop Volleys. In this inappropriate yet athletic presentation and without further ado, he leapt purposefully upon the first log which promptly rolled over. Regaining balance and composure he pretended to ensure the log’s stability by tapping and patting it around a bit. Once satisfied it was stable enough he stepped back up to resume the task.

I was enthralled of course as, apart from tennis, I’d never seen my dad engaged in anything physical whatsoever. The afternoon was full of promise. First he made little marks on the log with the sharpened edge which I mistakenly assumed were aiming points for the axe. I was mistaken because the first full swing missed these marks by some distance. In fact the first swing was much closer to his toes than to anything else on the log and was immediately followed by a blood curdling scream and a series of invocations involving most of the Saints. I was dancing around trying to see where he had cut off his toe but my dad was dancing around too much for a good look. In time I realised his hand seemed to be the problem. Blood gushed from around his fingers and a splinter about two inches long protruded from between his thumb and forefinger. Jack’s piece of advice regarding the axe handle had fallen on my dad’s deaf ears. Pulling out the large splinter with his teeth and with further acknowledgements of a spiritual nature he stalked off to the kitchen yelling out for Mum and some Band-Aids. I followed at a safe distance.

Further reparation was required for the axe. The handle was split near the head and the split had produced a number of splinters. It was one of these that had entrapped and so enraged him. Having applied Band-Aids to his hand, Mum reluctantly produced some tape from out of the Medicine Cabinet. The purpose of this tape, she explained, was to strap up badly damaged parts of the body but, for this one time only, it could be used to cover the broken sections of the axe handle and to keep the peace. My dad used most of the tape and threw the balance of the roll into the shed where it no doubt made numerous acquaintances.

A few tests were carried out until the axe and my dad reached a settlement whereupon the bastard wouldn’t catch him again, at least without severe retribution. The barely injured log beckoned.

Mum joined us and stood on the back porch advising me to keep out of the way lest my arm be severed by mistake. It was sage advice but unnecessary; whether the absence of my arm would have been accidental or with malicious intent, I was keeping well clear anyway.

After some minutes and accompanying invective, my dad seemed to be making progress although it appeared to my untrained eye that the main principle behind the endeavour was to hit the log in exactly the same place only occasionally. Nevertheless quantity rather than quality was winning out and it soon became apparent that the V-shaped cut would reach the other side of the log with just several more well-aimed blows. These were in short supply however and as with many things, when success is within our reach, we often overextend to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Nary more than three blows from completion he threw all his effort into one final swing, and missed the log altogether.

The axe head slid beneath its target and the handle struck the partly severed log just where he had applied the tape. The tape, proving that it was designed for things other than axe handle repairs, gave way under the pressure and the handle snapped clean in two. Under the force of the blow the remaining headless handle pitched violently forward taking my dad with it so that he performed a perfect somersault. At the other end, as if released from its own prison and unconstrained, the axe head took flight. It flew through the air at a perilous speed and passed by my Mum’s head by bare inches and impaled itself in the door frame behind her. Letting out a shriek, she took off into the house trailing invective behind her. My dad sat amongst the wood chips in silence; pieces of wood and grass protruding from his hair. Once I was satisfied that Mum was still alive, the whole episode suddenly struck me as hilarious and I started to giggle uncontrollably. Silence however conveys its own warning and within moments I realised my dad had begun to glare at me. I knew a good thing when I saw it so I took off up the back yard dodging the flying axe handle as it clattered amongst the tree stumps. I could come back later when it was dark or I could sneak back earlier and hide under the house until I heard Mum’s voice inside. For now, the afternoon which had held such promise for me, had delivered.