The Weight

It happens in those twilight hours between waking and sleep when the mind is conscious but the body is restfully still. A time when the most glorious ideas are possible and every imagined fear can be intensely real. The house is crisply silent and the family are all tucked away in a blissful slumber. Here is where you can be alone with your hopes and fears unlike in the day when the details of every day existence crowd out such thoughts. It’s in this foggy netherworld that the pain of loss can be at its most acute and those you have lost can be nearer to you than at any other time.

Though I didn’t know it at the time he was one of those people who would become a milestone in my life. One of those people we all invariably meet during our young lives that leave a lasting impression that helps form the genesis of who we will become. I remember being struck by his intensely deep voice on the other end of the phone saying ‘Yeah mate, why don’t you come down to the shop on Saturday morning and I’ll show you around’. I was nearing the end of my Coach Building apprenticeship and was distinctly aware that this was not my future. I had been told enough times by the old hands to get out while I was still young and looking around I knew I didn’t want to end up like them, discontented old men decaying away in the corner of some grimy factory.

I had six months left to serve and he understood that the honorable thing to do was to see it out. Despite needing someone fairly urgently, to my astonishment he said he was prepared to wait. Looking back on this event it was obvious from the start that he was a man of considerable integrity. As my new electronics apprenticeship progressed he mothered me gently along when I needed it and at other times left me to nut it out for myself when I needed some confidence building experience. All the while I became captivated by this man who had led such an interesting life in his younger days and it wasn’t long before conversations of electronic matters were replaced by stories of his adventures out west working in the railway camps during the construction of the Townsville to Mt Isa railway line. His knowledge of mechanical and electronic subjects was unsurpassed, bordering on genius. There wasn’t one facet of these subjects that he couldn’t explain in simple language with some anecdote of one sort or another. In fact, he had natural story telling ability that made any subject sound entertaining and engaging.

When your lucks in, everything has a habit of falling into place and as it turned out this man I admired so much also happened to have an exceedingly beautiful daughter. Of course we fell in love and were married; I was now a part of his family. Most would say marrying the boss’s daughter could be a recipe for disaster but that was not to be the case here. I was enveloped by the warmth and generosity of him and his family as I became part of their world. So I began an even closer association with this remarkable man.

I’ll never forget countless nights at the dinner table when the womenfolk would casually drift away and leave us two chatting away contentedly. I sat spellbound and captivated by his tales of days past and he obviously reveled in the telling. Perhaps in a family where he was outnumbered 3 to 1 by women I was a welcome male addition which helped balance the yin and the yang so to speak. Maybe in some ways I was the son he never had, someone with whom he could share that indescribable male bond and who could appreciate his tales of adventure in subtle ways that a woman can’t. As I sat and listened I watched him deftly roll each cigarette and lick the paper before closing it down with a careful swipe of the finger; each one a minor masterpiece in its own right. His packet of Drum and Talley Ho’s were an integral part of his considerable persona. Obviously a relic of his time spent in the west when it was de rigueur for every ringer and roustabout to have a tin of tobacco in the back pocket; the round tins leaving a permanent impression in their denim pockets.

I knew the rifle was there in the storage cupboard where I had always seen it, and I’m sure where it had always been long before I arrived on the scene. A plain looking 22 bolt action with open sights, hanging there in the same way a shovel hangs in the garden shed. Cradled there horizontally on two hooks without any malicious or malevolent intent but just another tool with its place and purpose. Of course guns were nothing new to me, having owned a few in my teenage years during a period of considerable interest in the shooting sports. The rifle was never the main focus of his yarns other than stories he told of shooting the odd plains turkey or wallaby to keep his dog “Butch” fed. He had mentioned that he’d bought it in Cloncury in1962 but otherwise I didn’t know a great deal beyond that. During the times when the two way radios didn’t need repairing (which was his actual reason for being employed there) he had periods of considerable spare time around camp. As a result he became a sort of jack of all trades around the railway construction camps, lending his considerable knowledge of all and sundry to the repairing of everything from refrigeration units to earth moving equipment. This also extended to duties as paymaster from time to time, delivering the pays to all the work crews up and down the line. He did say that having the rifle behind the seat of the old Holden ute eased his mind a little when traveling on those lonely outback roads with all that money on board. The general the impression I got was that a rifle was a common everyday item that many people had and no one thought much of it beyond that. No one seemed to fear guns in that era, they were just part of everyday life.

Tragically these happy years were cut short when he developed a brain tumor. This robbed his hands of their craftsman like woodworking abilities and he lost his quick witted, laconic power of speech. After the removal of the tumor he slowly regained his abilities only to be struck down by the very radiation that was meant to cure him. He finally succumbed to the radiation induced dementia a little less than 2 years after the original diagnosis of the tumor. The family was left in a state of numb resignation that he was gone and the light in our lives was dimmed forever.

It was around this time that my passion for shooting and firearms was rekindled after some 18 years away from it. It was then that I remembered the lonely forgotten old Krico 22 hanging in the cupboard. In the years since it had hung there new gun laws had come about and all of a sudden it was now a dangerous weapon to be feared and loathed. It could no longer stay where it was and needed a new home. As its new custodian I couldn’t have been more proud the day I delicately placed that rifle in my gun safe. With a sense of honor and as a mark of respect I decided to refurbish the rifle. I had the stock and the bluing professionally refinished, a trigger and bedding job done and the crown recut. I then fitted a lovely little Leupold VX1 2-7x 28 rimfire scope in Leupold mounts, polished the bolt to a high luster, removed the iron sights and fitted a set of QD sling swivels. The rifle now had the air of a modern rimfire rifle whilst still retaining the character of its origins.

Unfortunately the factory stock finish was some sort of opaque brown lacquer that seemed to be designed to hide the grain of the low grade beech it was made out of. When the refinishing revealed the patch work grain of the timber it was certainly a sight to behold. My wife complains that it no longer looks like dads old rifle and I suppose she’s right but I know that underneath the cosmetic changes it is still that same rifle that spent so many years by his side.

The rifle turned out to be a very good shooter and continues to produce very respectable groups with its favorite diet of Winchester Power Point. It’s a lovely lightweight little setup to take into the field and it has accompanied me on several memorable hunting trips. I distinctly remember one occasion where I made a beautiful shot on a hare in the dimming light of the afternoon..........

The scorched brown grass was edged in golden hues as the setting sun nudged the horizon and the hare was revealed in pure silhouette against the distant hillside. I remember thinking at that moment of the times his strong sun bronzed hands must have steadied this rifle, his finger reaching out and caressing this very same trigger. I could almost feel his spirit moving with me as I became one with the rifle and made the shot, and a perfect shot it was. It was in that very moment as the sound of the shot reverberated across the valley and ebbed slowly away, that I came to the sudden realisation that this rifle had become the only tangible reminder I had left of him. The memories of that radiantly golden afternoon were made unforgettable by my relationship with him and in turn his connection with that rifle. That unassuming little rifle had become a sacred object, a link between his spirit and mine.

The years roll unendingly forward and that dim light of our lives has been brightened beyond measure with the arrival of the sweetest little baby girl imaginable. The weight of loss has been lifted by the happiness of a new beginning. It’s funny how life has a way of rebalancing past sadness with new joy. And as I lean over the cot and marvel at her beauty in the soft ethereal light from the doorway, I reach out and softly stroke her sleeping head. A single tear silently rolls down my nose and drips into the bed sheets as I realise how achingly much I love her and how much he would have loved her too. Ross, I miss you, more than words can say, but don’t worry, I’ll take care of your girls ……….. and your rifle too.

A prouder son in law there has never been.