Grace Brennan tells us about the handyman locals never say no to

Sord doesn’t use a ‘w’ in his name. He tells me it’s because he can’t spell. I don’t believe him for a second; he’s the kind of fellow who can do everything.

He is the best handyman in town. Obsessed with woolsheds and their history, he knows every shed in the district. Notices the timber. Runs his fingers across the chalked names of shearers who left their marks. He tells me who was the best and how many they clipped in a day. The numbers mean little to me, but I get the gist.

His passion isn’t shearing though, it’s the shed itself: the craftsmanship. Most were built by his father, Jack, and his uncles. Building is in the blood.

He doesn’t mind a yarn, Sord. A twinkle in his eye as he shocks and provokes. It’s sometimes hard to decipher fact from fiction, but the laughter is always real. He punctuates differently. Too. Sentences start somewhere in the middle and end somewhere near the beginning.

“Yeah, yeah. Yeah.” His ‘yeah’s act as commas, question marks or exclamation. Sometimes all three. They are — most importantly — a cue. An ellipsis that tells you he wants to hear more.  Soon, you find yourself throwing them back to him as he speaks, like hot potatoes of curiosity. So iconic (and frequent) are they, that newcomers to town, when introduced to Sord, are challenged to scull their beer each time he says “yeah”. It’s always a hard-learned lesson.

Sord doesn’t need a mobile phone. Call him before six-thirty in the morning or don’t call him at all. When you do get him, it’s brief: transactional and to the point. Time of arrival. Materials needed. The plan of action. “Only way to do it, according to me,” he asserts. We believe him. Sometimes — if you are lucky — before he hangs up the conversation drifts to fishin’ or piggin’.

He is a holder of knowledge, old Sord. Knows the river better than most. Knows where the yabbies are and what the cod are eating. He holds history too. People who have tried and failed and lived and died here.

He reveals things in bite-sized pieces. Anecdotes that hint at something bigger. A yarn about a job has nothing to do with the job and everything to do with life or relationships or mystery. Sord moves between worlds. As comfortable with the cockies as he is with the townies, he is neither of them and somehow both.

His partner Sue is there sometimes. They have a symbiosis that requires no words. Tend to work in silence most of the time. Sue in a flowing skirt and svelte top. Sue not looking like she intended to paint dirty bannisters and fight off flies that day. Sue who never seems to stop. Who muffles a giggle occasionally as Sord tries to get a rise out of me. Who sits on the tennis chair with ‘Sord’ across the back and opens a biscuit tin for smoko.

I don’t know how he got the nickname Sord. I’ve never thought to ask. Never questioned his emblem — a pair of crossed swords — carved into the ageing timber of a local woolshed. The name, with its strength and its quirkiness, just fits. A ‘w’ doesn’t belong in the name Sord. It is perfectly different, like the man himself.

Grace Brennan founded the Buy From The Bush campaign. She lives near Warren in western New South Wales with her family. You can read more of her thoughts about life in the bush on our website: graziher.com.au