A Work In progress by Christine Anne Borra

The man woke up at the very first sign of light.  He was always the early riser in the house-hold. He was feeling quite pleased with himself as “Today was the day.” Conveniently it was the weekend and there would be no distractions. He had cancelled all visitors and he was ready to make a start.  Quietly he slipped out of bed, leaving his wife to snore on.

  First things first, he was hungry and dying for a cuppa. He pulled on his old pants with smudges of paint and smiled to himself. “Soon there’ll be artist’s paint on these old track pants,” and not the white paint already there from last summer’s house painting effort, which by the way was nearly finished.

 The morning light was now streaming invitingly through the glass doors that opened out to his deck.  The back-yard was coming alive with busy bursts of birdsong attracted by the abundant native trees that mostly had self-seeded.  So, the garden was a bit of a jungle and the layout fitted his natural gardening style, much to his wife’s disappointment. He would have none of that manicured stuffy self-serving design that all his neighbours seemed to get into.

  His lawn needed mowing, and maybe he would do that tomorrow, but not today, as today he planned to start his Masterpiece. His wife would be surprised.  She had often nagged him about starting up his painting again as he had taken Art at College, but had lost interest when he left to go on his O.E. instead of going to Varsity. “A waste of talent,” she had often said.

With a cuppa in hand and a plate of toast, he opened the doors to his nearly completed new deck and walked carefully so as not to move the last few boards that still had to be screwed down. His tea steamed in its mug, and the smell of the hot toast and butter added to the early morning enjoyment he was feeling as he settled into his comfy chair under the partly covered eaves. Next year when it rained he would be able to sit anywhere he pleased on his deck as he was in the process of extending and covering the eaves. This was very tricky work and required a lot of thought and planning due to the angles and run off. He had made an honest start, but then the rains of September had come and he was forced to stop. He would get around to it again soon.

He settled into his old wicker chair, listening to the song of the cicadas. His old ginger Tom Cat walked through the high grass and jumped up on to the deck and wound his way to greet him.  “Hello Ginger,” he said as he rubbed him behind his ear. “Are you after your breakfast?” he enquired. “Come on then.”  He put his mug down on the deck avoiding the partly finished table with battens missing. He was in the process of rebuilding the table, but he had run out of nails, and hadn’t had time to get to the store before it closed. “Just get a new one”, suggested his wife.  As it was a perfectly sound frame, he had ignored the comment. He still wasn’t sure whether he should be using screws instead. He had decided to look at his building book to see what it recommended, and it was still usable. A loud pathetic meow rose up from Ginger bringing him back his task at hand. “Come on then hungry,” he said to as he got up and went into the kitchen.

Settling back in his chair again he could hear Ginger’s contented purr as he gave himself the once over. The Jelly Meat had filled a gap for now, but you could bet he would be hungry again in a few hours.

  Now he could start to plan his Masterpiece. He had always liked the artist Robin Kahukiwa.  Maybe he would start with an abstract garden scene, koru and the like, since there was so much inspiration in his little jungle, or maybe a bird, or Ginger perhaps? But first he must have one more cuppa, then he should get cracking, as he wanted to capture the morning light that gave everything that fresh new look.

  Quickly popping into the kitchen he put the kettle back on the stove. It was one of those whistling ones, and he could get his painting gear out from the shed while he waited. He walked back through the open doors, over the deck and stepped down on to a pile of bricks. They had been placed there Just for the meantime, or until he could work out how to build three steps. They had to be wide enough for two people as he constantly had visitors popping in and out for a chat, much to his wife’s annoyance. On a good day you would be able to sit on the steps with a beer and chat and discuss the merits of a well kept lawn, rugby and the next fishing mission. The grass wasn’t much chop at the moment, however he had big plans. “Every man needs his patch of lawn.” It would be his only exception to his landscaping rules. He walked through the lawn to his shed - well the lawn was really a mixture of dandelions and puha and grass gone to seed and was bare in a few patches. He would be re-seeding it soon, judging by the weather forecast he should be able to start digging up the top layer as he planned to start from scratch. Then he would have a “Cracker” of a lawn. A lawn you could lie on and watch the clouds race by, and when the grass was cut he could sit on his steps and warm his feet like he used to do when he was a kid.  But for now he manoeuvred through the tall weeds shed bound, dodging hidden bits of wood from the deck he had built, well had nearly built, close to anyway.

His shed was an old white shed, with peeling paint, and you had to lift the door and push it in to get the key to work. It was only temporary, he would get a new one when the lawn was finished, and there was no sense in doing that first as he may want a bigger one to put the new lawn mower in. His old push mower was almost antique and he was sure he could sell it to a collector as it still worked, even though the right handle had come loose and turned in your hand every time you pushed it.

  “Now where did I put you,” he muttered as he looked for his long forgotten box of paints, brushes and paper?” He talked to himself as he often did. “There you are.” The box was hiding down on the floor near the hydroponics planter he bought last year to grow basil in. Home made pesto had been the plan as the store-bought stuff wasn’t a patch on home-made, and even better, it was a quarter of the price.  But home-made took a lot of time. The plan had been to make enough to freeze, but he went away for the weekend and forgot to get the boy next door to water it and all the basil wilted and died. It had been a bit of a hassle really. 

  Peering into his box of painting paraphernalia, he mentally checked the contents that were mostly left over from his college days. “Brushes, pallet knife, paper, charcoals, rubber, and new paint tubes,” that he bought last year. “Green, brown, red ochre, white, black, black,” he couldn’t believe it. He was sure he had black, he felt sure he would need it. What would he do now? He couldn’t possibly start if he didn’t have black. The main theme he felt almost sure now was black, he could see the painting, big bright bold, with black edges lining the colour. How could he paint Ginger without black. No, this was not good. He sighed as he stood up placing the tubes of paint he had in his hand back into the box. “Bugger, this will never do,” he muttered.

  So, closing the door behind him, making sure to lift it up and slam it as hard as he could, he walked back through the long weeds, up on to the deck, avoiding the uneven bricks that masqueraded as steps, on to the deck, avoiding the last few planks that needed screwing down, through the open doors to the whistling kettle that screamed at him.

  “What have you been doing?,” called his wife from the comfort of her bed. “Nothing,” he answered and he moved to make her a cuppa as well.  She would get up soon and would interrupt him anyway. “Never Mind,” he said to himself as he settled down for his second cuppa of the morning. “It will just have to be ‘A Work in Progress’.”

The Campfire by Gary Fortington

Ned poked at the fire with his boot to rekindle the flame; obediently it

burst into life, showering sparks in all directions. Father and son sat,

gazed into the fire, and yarned as the night closed in around them. Their

muffled voices and soft laughter were intermingled with the sounds of

the bush and the crackling of the fire. Unconcerned about the two

visitors, life in the bush continued on as it had done since time began.

Ned was sad, this would probably be the last time he would share a fire;

he was old now, tired and worn out. All the years of struggle trying to

scratch an existence out of an unrelenting and uncaring land had finally

beaten him. So with the love of his life now gone; there was no real

reason to go on.

In the warm glow of the fire he recalled how, as a youngster, he set his

first fire. It was at a “special place” that he and his mate had discovered

while out hunting rabbits. It was a place so special that, they were sure,

no one else had ever been there before them. Their first attempt was a

disaster; most of the wood was just too large and too green to burn. They

soon tired of scouring the bush for suitable fuel. The old man’s lips

creased into a soft smile as those memories came flooding back. Back

then Ned didn’t care much about the fire anyway. He was always too busy

chasing a rabbits with his dog or skipping stones across the creek or

racing his horse down the rough bush track and into the valley. At this

time in his life he needed no fire to keep him warm. Ned felt his face

flush, was it the warmth from the fire or was he a little embarrassed

recollecting those clumsy, boyhood days?

The next occasion Ned lit a fire at his “special place” was when he was

seventeen and he was there with the first and only girl in his life. He was

trying very hard to impress her so he built a huge bonfire that burned

furiously. The fire was so big that the flames licked dangerously at the

low hanging branches of the surrounding gums. Smoke billowed and

swirled around the fire before finally disappearing off in a thin wispy

trail into the sky. But despite its size and ferocity, the fire could not

match Ned’s own intensity and passion for this girl, the girl who was to

become his wife and best friend for more than forty years. The sparks

spat in all directions and the smoke danced out of control around the fire.

So engrossed were the pair with each other that they neither noticed or

cared.

It was not until many years later when on a hunting trip with his young

teenage son that Ned set his next fire. This was a small fire, purposely

designed to teach his boy about bushcraft and the need to preserve the

bush. Ned had shown his son where to collect the best firewood. He

showed him how to build the fire in the shape of a pyramid so that the air

circulated and the fire burnt with very little smoke. The final result was

a very efficient fire that reflected the skills Ned had learnt from his

own father. Using just enough fuel to cook their evening meal and keep

them warm against the cold night air, they sat and talked. They shared

the conversation, Ned recalling his own childhood experiences of life on

the farm and the boy sharing his dreams for the future. After an hour or

so the boy fell silent. His father bent lovingly over him, kissed him, and

tucked his blanket in around him.

With the children now grown and moved away Ned and his wife visited

their “special place” many times, they fished and spent long hours walking

through the bush spotting the many different types of birds and animals

that lived there. They built a different campfire during these days, one

that reflected the love they had for one another. It was not as large and

intense as when they were high-spirited teenage lovers nor was it as small

or efficient as the hunter’s fire. The fire they shared together kept

them as warm as toast and burnt with a glow that softly lit up the bush

around them. They sat side-by-side holding hands and staring into the

fire, not speaking and, after all these years, not needing to speak. Now,

without warning, she had been taken from him.

After what seemed an eternity Ned again poked at the fire with his boot

to rekindle the flame………but the fire had died. Ned sighed, rolled deep

into his swag and wearily closed his eyes.