The Rock Farmer

Abstract

Early onE Sunday morning, armed with a sledgehammer, a man strode around the back of our house and began laying into the frame of our bungalow. Chips of brick and concrete flew.I poked my head out of the doona and groaned. 'The Rock Farmer,' I said.My wife lifted her head and said, 'The what?' 'The Rock Farmer.' 'One of the posties from work?' 'I told him he could have the frame for firewood.' 'Jesus.' The word was a soft hiss as she pulled the doona over her head.I sighed and got out of bed. The whump, whump, whump of the sledgehammer became a march as I walked barefooted down the hall. To the tune of screeching nails being torn from the timbers I yanked back the kitchen curtain and yelled, 'Hey!'The Rock Farmer stopped and pushed back a lock of black hair, pulled a handkerchief that crackled as he forced it open, from his pocket, and wiped his brow. He kicked at a piece of brick with a Blundstone boot, saluted me with the sledgehammer, turned and laid into another stud.If you travel out along the Western Highway you'll go through Deer Park. Drive on past the display homes and the billboards advertising the new estates and you'll come to Rockbank. It's red dirt country where rocks still lay where they bounced after the Mt Cottrell volcano erupted.