With four hammer blows
the three inch nail is flush.
That's counting the set-up tap.
When the power goes off now
on a building site, carpenters
knock off for the day.
In Jim's time, you just
got on with it. Power
was for the Sparkies.
Stripped to the waist,
cracked leather tool bag
aproning his slight paunch,
Jim put in steady days
on Bendigo housing blocks,
armed with his smooth,
wooden-handled hammer,
nail punch, black-handled
builder's square rammed
in his belt, flick-hinged
carpenter's rule and stubby,
flat, red pencil. A portable
one-man constructor.
Even as I homeworked
over a desk as a teenager,
on weekends, I knew
his presence, nails jangling
in that tool bag, interspersed
with regular hammer blows,
some backyard project
always on the go.
The fete on a Saturday
at the local grammar school,
saw well-heeled mothers,
cardiganed fathers haggling
for bargains. Away from
trimmed doilies and napkins,
a makeshift side-show
offered a pound note
to anyone who could drive
a nail into thick board
in five or fewer blows.
I had to insist.
Jim bought Choc Wedges
for the family, all five of us.
Proud, was I, as punch.
bw
17.2.15
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