“Young men now don’t know the back end of a car from the front” Ron would muse between exhalations of his home-grown tobacco.

He was concerned for the future. Men of his generation were a dying breed; the practical, spit on your hands sort that could take an engine apart and get the bugger running again. 

There were no “young uns” to replace him, they were in the city. Who would work the land? 

“Immigrants?” he laughed. 

The welts and scars written across his hands told another story.

The Atherton Tablelands, Australia 2015.