Mark Ruddick

Suburban Fighting Force

As the sun set on a warm still June evening we surveyed the squad of men assembled in front of us. Identical beards cropped to uniform length, grim faced and each clutching torches as if to intimidate the gathering dark. The industrial smell of epoxy mixed with the wisps of summer barbecues and with a wash of relief we took a swig from our respective water bottles and slumped onto what remained of the lawn. The ranks of life size fibreglass soldiers continued to stare at the garden fence, each painstakingly fixed glass eye reflecting the chaos of an improvised workspace. A shed, a lawn and a collection of toolboxes spilling over with begged, borrowed and improvised tools. Grooves had been worn into the grass where we had repeated the same multitude of processes sixteen times over. Each iteration becoming more streamlined, as we’d discovered the placement of materials and tools, the order of measures and the reduced need for words as our hands became accustomed to shaping, trimming, lifting and setting. With houses overlooking every side of the tiny garden, the ranks of statues resembled a perverse collection of garden gnomes. A suburban fighting force ready to be shipped out on their first tour of duty.