Geoff Ellis finds himself the custodian of things that were built to last. By Geoff Ellis
THAT tricycle next to the door? It's a Cyclops #17, the childhood treasure of a farmer who taught me how to work with the land and 400 cows. Even with that handful of damned jerseys. During his farm clearing, he went to toss the relic on the pile of scrap metal that commemorated five generations of dairy farmers. I argued so vehemently for its retention that he gave it to me as my farewell present. Better than a carton of stubbies, Stewie's original paddock basher turns 80 this year.
THAT tricycle next to the door? It's a Cyclops #17, the childhood treasure of a farmer who taught me how to work with the land and 400 cows. Even with that handful of damned jerseys. During his farm clearing, he went to toss the relic on the pile of scrap metal that commemorated five generations of dairy farmers. I argued so vehemently for its retention that he gave it to me as my farewell present. Better than a carton of stubbies, Stewie's original paddock basher turns 80 this year.
The ute, Bob's Ute, runs out of rego next week. Although its diesel heart still beats loud and strong, terminal rust condemns it to the wreckers. It would make a great garden ornament but there just isn't space, so I'll remove the tools and tarps and store them in a shed full of memories.
Those grass shears have been passed along from gardener to gardener. Wrought from BHP steel in the 70s they remain razor sharp. There is a satisfying crunch as they cut through handfuls of dry couch and the action is good for my arthritis. As with all these things that were built to last, I'm just the momentary custodian.
Those grass shears have been passed along from gardener to gardener. Wrought from BHP steel in the 70s they remain razor sharp. There is a satisfying crunch as they cut through handfuls of dry couch and the action is good for my arthritis. As with all these things that were built to last, I'm just the momentary custodian.
Somewhere around in the vegie jungle, there's a shovel that was hand built by an apprentice toolmaker at Holdens in the 1950s. It was given to me by a woman in Port Melbourne, the toolmaker's daughter, when she moved into a retirement village. It will see me out, though her galvanised metal watering tin probably won't.
Roy guards all this along with a horror show mower and a concrete platypus. The mower was snatched from a historic scrap heap. The platypus was donated to the collection by a good friend when I was writing about the platypuses of the Powlett.
And that steel dropper has banged star pickets into solid ground for three decades across two states. It can always be found wherever the last job ended. It refuses to rust. Roy watches on from the worn comfort of his 1980s SEC supervisor's chair. Salvaged from a nature strip when the family moved away.
For the record, Bob's ute was a reliable and honest Ford built in Japan by Toyota under the Button plan. What could be more Australian?
Roy guards all this along with a horror show mower and a concrete platypus. The mower was snatched from a historic scrap heap. The platypus was donated to the collection by a good friend when I was writing about the platypuses of the Powlett.
And that steel dropper has banged star pickets into solid ground for three decades across two states. It can always be found wherever the last job ended. It refuses to rust. Roy watches on from the worn comfort of his 1980s SEC supervisor's chair. Salvaged from a nature strip when the family moved away.
For the record, Bob's ute was a reliable and honest Ford built in Japan by Toyota under the Button plan. What could be more Australian?