At the Tylden Primary School fair yesterday, grandchildren running around keeping us warm as the cold southerly blew across the oval. I ventured into the tractor pull area- the car show area. In one corner was a long table spread with axes. Hundreds of axes all shapes and sizes all immacuatley cared for and laid out dutifully. They wee guarded over by a well built middle aged farmer type gentlemen.
To initiate a conversation I asked.
'How do you sharpen an axe?'
He looked at me as one would look at a child about to be sent to the corner. To encourage him I added.
'With a file?'
The look turned into a scowl his face went a slightly pinker shade of red, the veins on his nose became a little more engorged.I slumped a bit to make myself a smaller target.
'A file, a bloody file, boy, (I am neally sixty) you do not use a file, a grinder, a wheel or anything like that'!
His voice was as deep and forcefull as a malley sandstorm, as thick as golden syrup on toast. I stood my ground wanting to learn the truth in this mystery.
'You use a stone boy, a stone, and not just any stone, it has to be a wet stone, a wet stone boy a wet stone.'
He repeated it over and over, he showed me axe after axe, he told me the techniques of stoning and ax and then cutting with one. Patience and time was the key and of course.
'You must use a wet stone, not a dry stone a wet stone.'
Filing grinding heats the axe blade and it loses it tone, its hardness its nature.
We talked on for ages he showed me Australian , British, American and axes from all over the world.
Axes were his world and his passion, are what a magic thing passion and (axes for that matter) are.
I came away a little wiser a little humbled by this man this simple great man. Made so because of passion and a little time.
As is he so can we...
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