During his early thirties, my Dad built us our family home. Not only were the designs and plan his, but from mud, he made each brick. He built our kitchen benches, our pantry cupboards, paved the floors, painted the wall, erected the roof, tiled the bathroom, landscaped the garden. And the block of land our house stood on was purchased for by the sale of his motorbike. This was the place where Dad taught me so many things… how to catch yabbies and hold them properly, how to draw a house with perspective on the roofline, how to roll my tummy, to tell the time by the sun (or by a hair past a freckle), how to make an ‘engine’ out of an ice-cream container lid for my bmx, how to build a fire properly, how, nearly, to drive a car (don’t ask!), how to whistle, and that if it was worth doing something “it was worth doing well”.
I’m now mid-process of renovating (ie painting and changes drapes, and maybe a few more bits and pieces) my first home for my family. This has made me realise a number of things; I’m a perfectionist (my attention to detail is at times a hindrance); I’m unrealistically ambitious; I’m a control freak; and I’m my father’s daughter.
My childhood home was always my favourite place to be. It has long since been sold but I’ve not been into another home that had the same look or feel. However, I hope – even with all my annoying perfectionist traits and tendencies – that I too can create an amazing place for my family, undoubtedly helped along by all the things that I learnt from dad. Happy father’s day Dadda, Pie xxx