Home MakingHow is it that a house becomes a Home? That bricks and mortar and glass and wood turn from weather shelter into soul's rest? That a mortgagee's shackles become a family's haven. Perhaps Time is as of-the-essence here, as it is in so many Picture a freshly staked house block. It is bare earth. Often, in more fertile areas of Australia, the topsoil has been scraped off and sold for additional profit before anyone has a chance to put their roots down and draw nourishment. Often, in more toxic areas of "urban renewal", some metres will need to be removed before domestic habitation can begin again. Often, the bones or spirits of original owners will lie deep below. To make this bare earth live again, new soil must be bought. Regardless of the history, new layers will be built up in the humus over time. The new owners take possession and their dreams of form, colour, feeling and fancy unfold. And so houses are built, both large and small. Gardens are planted and slowly, slowly start to shape the landscape in their own, organic way. Perhaps children come along, or pets. Their toys and food scraps are added to the layers of civilization. Old dogs are buried and give meaning and connection that can never be lost. Birthdays and Christmas' come and go. Party hats and old balloons are lost amongst the violets and slowly return to the soil. Storms take their toll on branches; stories are told. Of the time Fang the Cat had his stomach sliced open by roof tin made razor-like in the cyclone's fury. Or when Grandma Pam fell over backwards in a deckchair on the terrace after a few. Literally laughed her tits off. One popped out. She'd had breast cancer. Over time, the layers build up - the cake crumbs gather deep in the carpet, the bloodstains of giving birth fade, the height chart is scratched in the wall. We grow. We live. We die. The last house my family shared was Harvest Road - a good name for a foodie, fruitcake mob. This was, indeed, a Home. The place my father released his last slow, deep breath in the bed he had shared with Mum for ever and ever. The dark patch on the bedroom wall where Dolores the Cat had rubbed herself as she walked past every morning and evening. There is art in stains. There is life in layers. There is history. There is love. This place, so much more than bricks and mortar. Now it's on the market. It's time for Mum to move on, up the road, but still within her community. Perhaps the new owners will be there for 10 years plus as we were. A fresh coat of paint, some DIY, the skin of a sorry knee or two scraped on the cement-rendered walls - the new layers will build up over time. And so, a house becomes a Home. ………………….. Libby Davy Produced for broadcast on ABC Radio National and other local ABC Radio stations from July 2002.
© Libby Davy 2001
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