FOR MY eighth birthday I ached for only one particular present. It was not an object you would have found in a toy shop, Viv Graces fishing tackle shop, the paper shop, Cassins Menswear or even the bike shop in Macksville.
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It was to be found in a shop in Bowra St, just up from the Commonwealth Bank.
That shop was a hardware store and the present was an axe.
Not an axe like that used by Slugger Cooper in the standing block at the woodchops at the Macksville show, but a smaller version. An axe the Yanks call a hatchet.
An axe we called a tomahawk!
I can hear you asking: What would an eight-year-old kid want a hatchet for?
No, not for chopping off the heads of chooks before mum burnt the feathers and plucked them.
Not for chopping up firewood. We used Slugger Cooper's axe for that. I'm talking about Nifty's axe, and it hadn't been sharpened since we left the farm at Argents Hill in 1959!
Also, the wedge had fallen out of it and you had to be very careful on your backswing because the head may have flown off over the fence, across Pacific St, and landed in Butch Ryder's front yard.
You will never guess, not in a million years, about the time it takes for a fallen tree to turn to coal.
Drum roll ... for chopping down trees!
Yes, I was a junior lumberjack and you know what they say about lumberjacks!
I took to this calling with relish. Every afternoon after I had chopped wood for the combustion stove I would head across Pilot St to where there were heaps of saplings growing on the fairways of the abandoned old golf course.
And I would chop, lop, dissect, strip, mulch, ring bark, everything you could do - with a fallen tree.
Please, don't be alarmed!
We were into recycling.
The tree trunks were used for building forts (known as cubby houses by today's youth), making traps for capturing bandicoots and Indians (in games of cowboys and Indians), manufacturing gonks (as used in the Monty Python film, The Meaning of Life) for firing gooleys (large rocks) at the Carmont kids' dogs across the gully on the other side of Pilot St, and building goal posts on the bottom flat.
The tree limbs were used for making bows (as in archery). We used stinking rogers (long stick-like plants) for arrows, the forks of the branches were used for making shanghais to fire rocks at birds and occasionally at Dazza (Darryl Parkins).
Dazza had a very short temper and was a fellow lumberjack. Together I reckon we felled enough lumber to build a bridge across the gully in Pilot St.
We used the leaves for covering the bandicoot traps and underground forts we built.
When we weren't chopping down trees we were doing a bit of burning off, helping Old Burt Davidson who was the local fire chief and the man who deputised for Santa Claus at the annual RSL Christmas Party.
Occasionally this burning off got a bit out of control. In fact, more than occasionally to honest.
One afternoon, in particular, stands out. It was a hot afternoon, must have been in February, I think. There was a strong nor easter blowing. And there was a vacant block beside our house in Pilot St.
Back in those days a vacant block was about the size of a football field. After I got home from school I went over to see fellow fire enthusiast Dazza. I had pinched a box of matches out of the kitchen drawer which was one of those drawers that had everything in it from nails, knives, screws, a screwdriver, batteries, a torch, bex powders, Brylcream, bullet shells (from WW2), even a 303 bullet Nifty had brought down from the farm years before.
The vacant block was opposite Dazza's house in Pacific St and was behind our back fence and the chook pen which was covered by a choko vine.
Dazza and I reckoned the block of land could have done with a bit of a slow burn off. We forgot about the howling nor easter.
Suddenly, we had a bushfire on our hands heading rapidly for Dave and Marie Dalton's place in Pacific St. Then we heard sirens. Steve Merry and Santa Claus were heading our way at a rate of knots.
By the time the fire brigade arrived we had vacated the scene and were hiding out under Uncle Frank's bed on the veranda (Frank was staying at our place for about a week at the time).
Beside us, under the bed, was a bottle of Uncle Frank's night cap ... a bottle of port.
So apart from trying to keep as still and quiet as possible we were careful not to cause a clinking sound on the bottle, or worse, knock it over!
We knew we would be found out. There were no lightning strikes, no burning cinders from bushfires elsewhere. We were the only ones at the scene.
Even to this day I can remember the footsteps coming our way on that veranda. When all I could see from under the bed was a pair of fireman's boots. Our time was up!
Old Bert Davidson gave us a stern lesson in the correct procedures when burning off but it was Norma Eliza who really got stuck into us. Dazza was quick to run home to his place and I was left to cop a tongue lashing from my mother.
Now I think of today. Back then, with all of this tree lopping and burning off, we were not visited by the authorities. There were no authorities back then. The local community were able to do what they thought was best for their township.
The fire brigade, with Steve Merry leading the way, would be burning off all around the town during the cooler months, preparing for bushfire season.
It was a very common occurrence in the '60s and early '70s to see the town enveloped by smoke. But you knew it was for our protection.
And believe it or not, even with our tree lopping program, there were some big bushfires roar through the bush to the east of Pilot St up through the gully behind Pacific St up to Parkes St.
In the middle of summer, with a hot westerly blowing, it was a terrifying sight to see the flames leaping above the tall pine trees over on the southern side of Pilot St.
When my ninth birthday arrived I had moved on from the hatchet to a foam surfboard. Not one that you bought, but ones we made from foam (polystyrene).
All I needed was a big sheet of foam that was used to protect electrical appliances when they were shipped in cardboard boxes. And that meant a visit to MacPhersons Electrics to ask Razor if we could have a piece of foam from one of his fridge boxes.
From that sheet of foam we designed, sawed, sanded and painted our own surfboards.
With no more tree lopping or burning off, the bush has kept growing. Steve Merry is no longer around, not even Bert Davidson to protect us.
I can't remember the last time I saw an eight-year-old lumberjack doing their thing in the bush.
For that matter I can't remember when I saw anyone, heaven forbid, chopping down a tree or clearing undergrowth in our township.
All I know is these trees and bush keep growing and it's only a matter of time before those flames over on the hill near Pilot St are bigger and scarier, much more frightening than Santa Claus' fireman's boots.
As they say, it might not happen overnight, but it will happen!