The Uncle's House

It was our Christmas holiday house,

a fisherman's shack, built to lock-up stage,

home-finished by an uncle, nails

laboriously hammered in

during short hours stolen from the city.

The furniture was fourth-hand -

crippled wicker chairs, tattered mats,

beds that tortured. The stove was unfriendly,

so children were allowed pies.

Renters, we used to spend long hours

talking about what we'd do if we owned it.

In the meantime toddlers became teenagers

and no one cared if half the beach

was dropped on the dull and roughened floors.

Our street, like all the streets, was a sandy track,

barbecue hot in summer, and like all the streets,

led to the beach.

When we bought it we pulled down inside walls

pushed outside ones further out, covered the old fibro

with cladding, brought up passable furniture, hid the floors,

commissioned a passable bathroom, bought a kinder stove.

The family still came, but one remarked with sadness

"What you've done is turn the house into a home."

And our street was no longer sand, but bitumen.

2000 (c) Mary Hawthorne