He was always happy to see you, John.
As a kid I remember he might catch you
and ratchet his affection clink by clink,
through crushing hugs and handshakes,
spins, rumbles, tackles,
or involuntary inversions,
leaving you swinging by one ankle,
ticking like a clock and staring at his giant's bootlaces.
There was a hyper-real, inviting physicality to him,
like you were spying on a fresh island half sprung from the sea.
He was a bullock, a bear, a lion of a man who roared
but more in noise than consequence,
and might pounce on you
and knead your tender belly with his paws,
and almost purr to feel you relax in his arms, safe and still.
He worked hard, all the time I knew him.
I can feel the cold just imagining him revving up the Kluger
before the heating kicked in at 5am in Clifton Springs
for the drive, drive, drive up the big road to the city
and work.
And he was more four wheel drive than sedan,
being as a man needs a vehicle to step up into
rather than stooping down and squeezing oneself,
and lunch, and lunches past, betwixt seat and steering wheel.
And once so ensconced Spud could ride high across the plain,
almost as if on horseback, but with ample dust
to shower the hapless peons in his righteous wake.
He was strong, the first on the list of reinforcements to call
in any battle you had of "us" versus "them".
A great steamroller of Cottleness, thundering at times like a storm,
but often gentle and sweet as rain.
If he was doing something with you
it could feel like he was pushing you up while you scrabbled,
yet also forging on ahead at the same time.
He was smart and there was a neatness
and precision to his work, especially with wood
and schematics of ore bodies, in green and blue,
that belied his strength, like a bulldozer that could sew.
John laboured for his family of Susan, Jane,
Marianne and Penny, he undergirded them
and worked and worked to support them
and loved them with a fierce and protective love
like a porcupine duffle bag
enveloping your best pieces of china.
I can see him now,
red dust seeped into the creases of his knuckles,
ruddy sweat like a rash damp across the flanks
of his plaid bushman's shirt. And he's up, up
and out from his chair and though the door now,
down the stairs and jumping into the truck
shouting behind him as he powers away in a rusty cloud —
"I've just got to go and pull some dopey bastard
and his sliver Nissan from the creek.
I'll be back home in time for tea."
Stroke, stroke, stroke.
Push hard through the legs
and chest out, chin up.
Row on Spud, row on.