Chapter 27
The Axeman’s SecretMy father was a powerful teacher, by example and by precept. Like most Dads, he was a mixture of talents and skills. He’d been a blacksmith, a soldier, a farmer and, when I was two or three years old, he became a policeman. He was also a champion middleweight boxer and a champion axeman.
He was patient, kind and considerate, especially to the underdogs in life. And he was widely admired for his personal integrity, even by criminals with whom he dealt.
When I was five, Dad used to supplement his policeman’s pay by doing extra work, like post-hole digging (manually!), excavating for petrol tanks and cutting timber.
I remember this last activity vividly.
My younger sister and I used to often accompany him and a couple of other off-duty policemen on their wood cutting expeditions into the State forests south of Colac, in Victoria’s spectacularly beautiful Otway Ranges. While they chopped down trees (then chopped them up!), Margaret and I used to make cubby houses and play games.
After several such trips I began to notice a difference in the way my father worked compared to his colleagues. He seemed to spend a lot of his time not cutting timber, yet he was invariably the first to finish his quota, neatly cut and stacked.
He seemed, in fact, to spend a lot of his time sitting down.
I recall asking him about this odd state of affairs.
He sat me down beside him and patiently explained the real situation.
"Son," he said, "have you ever noticed what I do when I’m sitting down?"
"You whistle!" I replied, eagerly.
"Yes, but have you noticed anything else?" he queried.
I hadn’t, even though his back was rarely turned away from us as we played nearby.
"Let me show you," he said, as he took an oil can and a stone from his bag.
He then proceeded to show me how he spent that time, not just sitting and whistling, but honing his axe blade to a razor-sharp edge.
He showed me how to safely assess its sharpness. He explained how to get the angles right. How to ensure that the stone wasn’t too wet or too dry. Then he showed me the difference his preparation made to his results.
His axe bit deep into the tree trunk. It didn’t become stuck like his friends’ axes so often did. Where they busily hacked away, hour after hour, he would aim his axe carefully and, with a few strong blows, fell a huge tree exactly where he wanted it. He’d quickly strip the foliage and branches. He constantly checked the state of his blade and, if necessary, would sharpen it some more.
It was a valuable lesson, made certain by giving me a small tomahawk of my own – and the responsibility for keeping Mum’s kitchen firewood and kindling replenished.
I don’t remember doing too good a job with the firewood and kindling, but I do remember the real lesson he taught me… take time out to keep your blade sharp.
It was intelligent, high leverage preparation. It shortened the time and effort required, while he conserved his strength.
It was also a superb example of the Bow and Arrow Principle at work, once again.
Taken from
“Don’t Go Into Small Business
Until You Read This Book!”
by John Counsel
Small Business Books 1996
© 1996, 1997 by John Counsel
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