Do It Yourself

This essay has reached the finals of Growlife Medical's 2023 Annual Essay Competition, with this year's theme being "Strong Family Bonds.

My father was an only child, raised by his widowed mother. He used to tell his four children that as a boy he helped save on food costs by dragging a small trolley from their rented rooms in Carlton to the Victoria Market to collect vegetables discarded by the stall-holders at closing time. The bond between mother and son was strong. 

During WW2 when my father was fighting in Papua New Guinea, my 56 year old grandmother was hit by a cyclist when crossing a road in Carlton. She fell, hit her head on the gutter, staggered back up and went home. A few days later she died from a brain haemorrhage. My father was granted a week’s leave to attend her funeral. He sold his only possession, ironically his bicycle, to pay for her headstone. He was now alone in the world. 

Being raised without a man in the house, my father had gained his handyman skills the hard way. Willing to have a go at building anything, his major source of information came from a collection of 20 ‘Do-It-Yourself’ type magazines published in the 1950s when people were rebounding after the war. I inherited these faded, well-thumbed magazines in their home-made binder after my father’s death. Looking through them I can see many of the building projects and repair jobs he had tried to imitate. Comparing the professional magazine images with the memories of what my father built still makes me smile. 

I remember when he ‘updated’ the bathroom. Our bathroom was basic; a green pedestal vanity sink and green bathtub, with a shower rose up at one end. A complicated gas hot water unit attached to the wall over the bath was off-limits to children. Only adults were allowed to hold a match where a hiss of gas emerged from beneath the unit when a handle was turned. Their hands would tremble slightly as they awaited the small explosion when the gas ring finally lit. 

My father’s update to the bathroom comprised of building an open fronted cupboard to provide bench space around the sink. Linoleum off-cuts from the laundry floor were glued to the bench-top in the hopes of making it waterproof. 

When the bathroom upgrade was finished we all stared at it in awe. At last, somewhere to put brushes, combs, toothpaste and jars of Brylcreem. The upgrade remained a thing of beauty until the glue failed and we were left to seek our toothbrushes and combs in the curled edges of the peeling linoleum. 

One of the faded magazines depicts a group of people sitting around a pipe-smoking man in an apron who is holding tongs above some chops on a brick barbecue. Everyone in the image is smiling, as if the man has told a joke. At the sight of such happiness, my father no doubt decided we needed one of these. While he had concrete left over from when he’d concreted the back yard, he had no bricks. Bricks were in short supply post war and they cost money we didn’t have. 

Not being put off by this lack of material my father would no doubt have sought suggestions from that bottomless wealth of information, ‘the blokes at work.’ 

An area beside the vegetable garden in the back yard was identified as the perfect location for the barbecue, and my father set to work. We children were to stay away from the area until it was finished. 



For weeks my father went backwards and forwards between the garage and the barbecue area with wheelbarrows, shovels, , stones, sand, bags of cement and assorted tools. I heard him rummaging in the wood shed and up the ‘smelly side’ of our house where broken tiles, concrete chunks and an assortment of broken tools had been discarded into a pile the dog like to sniff around.   

Finally the day arrived. ‘Well,’ my father announced, ‘...tomorrow night we’ll be having our first barbecue.’ At this he grinned and we all clapped and cheered. 

My mother smiled. ‘Okay, I’ll get some sausages. But I don’t know how you do the vegetables. Can you boil the saucepans on the barbecue or will I put them on the stove.’ 

‘The blokes at work said you’re s’posed to have lettuce and tomatoes for a barbecue,’ my father replied.’ 

My mother frowned ‘But we don’t usually eat lettuce. Can’t I just cook the vegetables on the stove and you cook the sausages on the barbecue? We can still eat outside.’ 

My father nodded. ‘Yeah, I s’pose.’ 

He looked at my three brothers. ‘You boys’ll be responsible for setting up the card tables and bringing the kitchen chairs outside. I’ll tell you when it’s time.’ 

‘Blossom,’ he said looking at me, ‘... your job is to help mum with the food. Okay?’ 

The next night we all trooped up the yard to see the barbecue and watch it being lit for the first time. Holding our breath with excitement, we rounded the bungalow, went past the lemon tree and through into the veggie garden. 

Waste material from the ‘smelly side’ of our house had been formed and concreted into an unlovely, lumpy, plinth. Sitting waist-height atop the plinth my father had secured a broken stove-top by concreting more waste material on either side of it. A thick square of metal placed over the burners served as the cooking plate. What had once been the grilling compartment was now filled with twigs and papers ready to light. 

Still wearing his work overalls and cap my father stood proudly beside the barbecue beaming at us with pride. ‘Well, what d’ya think?’ 

‘Is that a barbecue?’ asked my four-year old brother - disdain in his voice. 

‘Sure is,’ said my father into the deafening silence. 

‘It’s very nice love,’ my mother quickly offered, giving the rest of us a lead. 

‘Yeah, terrific!’ 

‘Can’t wait.’ 

‘Can I light the match?’ - this last from the six-year old. 

‘No, that’s my job,’ said my father, striking a match and holding it to the kindling. Some paper glowed red momentarily, then curled and went out. My father tried again with no success. ‘Probably needs a bit more air,’ he said nervously. ‘You boys go and set up the table and chairs while I get the fire going.’ 

‘I’ll go in and check on the vegetables. Suzanne and Neil you come with me. Suzanne can get the plates and knives and forks and Neil (the four-year old) can bring the sausages out. As we all hurried away my father could be heard repeatedly lighting matches and cursing softly. 

Forty minutes later we all sat at the card tables with a burnt sausage on each plate while our mother dished out mashed potatoes and peas from two saucepans. The dog circled the tables then followed the trail to sit beside the barbecue expectantly. 

‘Hoe in everyone,’ enthused my father. ‘This is our first barbecue. It’s great eating outside isn’t it?’ 

‘Hm,’ my eldest brother offered, ‘a bit like camping.’ Sitting next to him, I swatted a mosquito. 

‘I can smell Mrs Armstong’s chooks over the back fence,’ my mother commented. 

‘It’s cold out here,’ said the six year old. 

It took about five minutes for the eating to be finished, at which time my mother stood up and began stacking the plates and cutlery. ‘That was very nice Vic. You did a good job. Thank you.’ 

Nodding her head at me, she indicated I was to carry the tableware back inside. She followed with the saucepans. ‘You boys help your father tidy up,’ she said over her shoulder. My memory suggests that other than an occasional burnt sausage in bread we never had a sit-down barbecue meal in the yard again. 

No doubt a little disappointed with the barbecue experience, my father’s enthusiasm for building things never dampened. He went on to build and make things for the family including a cubby house for me and a bicycle shed for the boys. Most of his constructions were made from items sourced at the local rubbish dump or from off-casts from friends and neighbours. But they were all made with joy and for the purpose of making life more comfortable and happy for his family. 

While his mother’s love for him was without doubt, I like to think my grandfather would have been proud of his son had they ever met. I certainly am. 

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