Autobiograph...ical

...for Knots in the String.

‘The most interesting homes are always those that are autobiographical.’ Kevin McLeod of Grand Designs fame.

I would say, Kevin, that every home, no matter what, is autobiographical. They don’t need to be a new-build – an architecturally contrived dwelling. They can be as simple as a clapboard cottage, a small brick townhouse, an elegant Georgian home in need of love. An apartment, a tiny house, a tin shed, a van on wheels, gosh – even a tent. Our homes, every corner, every niche, every wall and door, our gardens, a tent flap. No matter what – it tells our story.

My Mum’s and Dad’s coastal home (and later my brother’s) has a vibrant history dating back to the 1920’s – a home my grandfather built in the first instance for his wife (who had ovarian cancer) and for his three daughters to escape any likely incursions into Hobart during WWII, and to escape measles outbreaks and anything likely to damage the life of his family. He built the black oiled board cottage on the the riverbank with a jetty with davits on which he hung his fishing dinghy. I would lie on my belly, just gazing at the shoals of silver tiddlers flashing round the jetty piers. If I looked harder, between the seaweed I would see black crabs – always scuttling somewhere.

Later, my mother and father inherited the house and Dad turned the garden into a green and floral oasis, Mum cooked deliciously honest food from her wonderful recipe book and they both fished in a white aluminium dinghy. When I married, my children had Swallows and Amazon holidays in the house and learned about coastal life.

When the house was sold on two years ago, our family kept everything important to our history. There’s the old metal house sign painted by my uncle (so many stories to tell about a man who was truly talented but whom only my own family believed in) and which will hang on the exterior of my brother’s new home.

Three keys – to various bedroom doors and the side verandah door. Unlocking a million memories. Then there’s the old wooden wallphone and I remember the party-calls via the postmistress who could no doubt hear everything we said (very Agatha Christie and St. Mary Meade).

There’s furniture that belonged to Dad and Mum from the old house and which is shared between us. The old table which saw a lifetime of meals, and which is currently stored safely, the sideboard which my daughter has. The stunning (and heavy) Huon Pine wardrobe made by my grandfather.

The old wooden jigsaws which kept us amused as kids around the table whilst the fire cracked and popped, and the low winter sun shone through the windows - a golden pathway into the lounge and drawing patterns on the faded Turkish rug.

There are other games – Buccaneer, an ancient box of Scrabble and an equally elderly Monopoly, still with beautifully contrived metal charms, and a weathered Bingo set. In my mind, I see we children sitting round the table playing (and arguing about who really got the six and no, you can’t pass go!). There are also my grandmother’s books on the royals as far back as Queen Mary as well as aged novels which used to sit either side of the fireplace.

With every single thing, there’s a memory and with the memory a story – my story, my brother’s story, Mum’s and Dad’s stories, my children’s stories – our autobiography.

Doing:

Still reading the same titles as last week. But beginning an ARC of Matthew Harffy’s about-to-be-released new title, Dark Frontier . Harffy is well known for his excellent Dark Age sagas and this is a stupendous departure – a novel set in the wilds of Oregon in the late 1800’s. I’ll report back.

Two Substacks that stirred my soul this week.

Elizabeth Beggins:

The far shore of a too-wide river

The opening quote was beautiful and as per, the elegant essay continued.

And how I envied Shona her long distance swims!

New name, new season, new beginnings

I also danced… where I managed a turn without listing to port, and where I’m learning to waltz as light as air whilst pointing my feet and managing to be graceful with my arms - all at the same time. That’s the intention - ye gods!

Swam, walked and watched 7 mls of rain fall on my garden where sits a little white coastal cottage.

The house is an eccentric place, cobbled together with bits of early 20^th century worker’s cottages from Maria Island. It was built sparingly as the then owners, English migrants escaping harsh post-war Europe, had small needs. But paragraphs of their own autobiography were writ large. A love of light and sun, of gardening and fresh vegetables. An ex-military life with an army bunk bed in the workroom and a tin trunk. Order in the way all the garden tools were stored. A cow byre in the lane and a paddock next door. Things Scandinavian.

Cornishware.

A diagnosis of cancer and illegally grown opium poppies in the veggie garden…

But some things are meant to be. How many times had my husband and I walked from the beach toward this secret little house in its big garden? We’d both admired it for a long time from a respectful distance. My husband watched the For Sale sign being tied to the front gate late one afternoon in 1988 and he owned the house by midday the next day. The house just spoke to us and we knew, we just knew, that we would love the place as dearly as Mr. and Mrs. Roberts had done.

We love the odd levels of each room, the window-seats in each room,

the large sunroom, the compact kitchen, and we know that if the previous owners wafted through in a ghostly way, they would approve. The quirkiness is what we fell in love with and so it stays for our lifetime.

Perhaps it’s what defines us – perhaps our family autobiography is filled with wordage from the way we live in this house. Solitude, peace, willows wafting, birds flitting from tree to tree, rain on the tin roof (when it deigns to fall), status quo. Nasturtiums glowing orange in a certain light, shell-grit from Mr. and Mrs. Roberts’ old chook yard, pears and apples, an old and very generous cherry plum tree. And memories – the whole place, house and garden, alive with memories.

So thank you, Kevin, for making me think about what a home can evoke and for the warmth and joy that such reminiscences bring forth - a family autobiography.

Music this week? Has to be retro, I’m afraid.

Moon River Henry Mancini,

because Mum and Dad used to play this on an LP at the riverside house when we were children and later when I was much older, Dad would always whistle along off-key, and I would dance with him whilst Mum would wash up at her kitchen sink, looking across the river and whistling in tune brilliantly, as the tea towel was flicked back and forth…