The Glory Days

Ash Hopping
Jul 30, 2017 · 5 min read

Our backyard looks tired. Weeds have sprouted along the paddock fence line, framing the expanse of uncut grass. An old bath that once served as a cow’s trough is filled with what looks suspiciously like cane toad spawn, and shrubs of dry red and yellow bottlebrushes poke out from behind the old bonfire pit that hasn’t been used in far too long.

The cubby house stands feebly in the middle, a shrine to better days. Its once radiant crimson paint has faded to a dull red. The pink plastic toaster still sits on our table, a surface only big enough for little children — but instead of four small chairs, a carpet of chicken droppings resides on the floor.

This place will look very different soon. Our humble cubby will be replaced by a media room, and Mum’s veggie patch will be superseded by a new home gym so we can work off the hours of snacking that will come with the surround-sound watching experience. Dad’s old shed is the only thing that will remain the same — he hasn’t utilised it since the building days of the cubby house, but its existence is a comfort to his masculinity.

It started, like any cubby house does, as framework. We tip-toed across it, hand in hand with our tool-laden father, delicately preparing for our futures as Olympic tightrope walkers. I always beat Hannah, even though she was bigger than me. Spring came, and with it glorious walls, a corrugated tin roof and a yellow slippery dip.

Hannah turned five, and the cubby house transformed from Olympic training arena to the best Barbie mansion on the market — far better than anything plastic that could be purchased from Kmart. When the Barbies’ hair grew tangled and our patience wore thin, the cubby became a safehouse for us: the international spies whose mission was to rescue our little brother Jack from the Villains of the Paddock. December rolled around with a thick and inescapable heat, and the grass became lava that could only be eluded by running as quickly as possible to the steps and yelling, “Last one in’s a rotten egg!”. Mum made us fresh lemonade from our very own tree while Dad set up the sprinkler to distract us from the boiling sun.

A family moved into the spare block next door. At first we were apprehensive of these new people and tangled ourselves behind our mother’s knees as she chatted to the mother of their family. The typical Mum subjects were covered: scorching weather, complaints about the grass turning brown, and of course, “At least we haven’t had to put the dryer on this summer!” A young girl came bounding out of their house licking a Paddle Pop. Her blonde ponytail was chopped shorter in places, and her fringe seemed askew, but I was instantly fond of her.

“Found her with the scissors under her pillow last week,” her mother said, gently ruffling her hair. “Caitlin’s always wanted to be a hairdresser.”

“Do you like Barbies?” I asked. Hannah elbowed me, embarrassed that anybody outside of our immediate family knew about our ever-growing collection. According to her, we were getting too old for dolls. She wasn’t complaining when I volunteered to be the servant to her Queen.

“Yeah, do you have some?” Caitlin replied. Hannah’s elbowing ceased.

Before long, the cubby was a classroom. Hannah got to be teacher by default, and would only play with me if I agreed to call her Miss. I was fascinated by the tales of rulers and pencils, and yearned for the day when I could carry around my own pink schoolbag. However, when the time came, it was not as enthralling as my four-year-old mind has expected — I was made to sit still, and my teacher didn’t believe in pretend.

Caitlin seemed to live at our house more than hers. She stole spoonfuls of Milo from the cupboard and taught us things that our mother would have disapproved of: how to ensure your Barbie’s hair was exactly the length you wanted, the perfect butter to sprinkles ratio on a sandwich, and even the craftiest way to create a flying fox from the clothesline.

Mum asked us to take out the washing once, and came out ten minutes later to discover Hannah swinging from the Hills Hoist with a rope, laughing gleefully. Mum watched in horror as Hannah fell and grazed her knee. The cubby became an emergency hospital ward, and Nurse Caitlin tended to the wound with Hannah’s favourite purple BandAids. Hannah yelped and winced appropriately.

I still can’t pinpoint the exact moment when we lost interest in our beloved backyard. Perhaps it was when Mum and Dad bought us little chicks — the cubby was transformed into a coop and the scent of chook poo was hard to ignore. They proved to be more of a chore than anything, and Dad detested having to constantly clear feces from our deck. In a fit of uncharacteristic desperation he fixed a fence around the coop to keep them in. It crumbled like a house of cards.

I haven’t even looked at the backyard in years. It saddens me to think that the cubby will be no longer. Now, it stands before me forlornly, used to the lack of attention. The yellow slide that once made our mother wary has been replaced by a piece of timber with little notches for chicken feet. I remember screaming as I slid down the slide, rushing to escape the clutches of the fire-breathing dragon in its quarters. The window that once delighted us by its smooth swinging hinges now hangs loosely on just one, as if threatening to break at any slight movement. With no sprinklers to rescue it, the grass is browner than ever. Caitlin has moved away. Hannah doesn’t live here any longer either, she’s moved to the new suburbs where the houses are bigger and the backyards are smaller.

Dad comes outside with his toolbox, thrilled to once again have a use for it. He begins laying down long pieces of timber on the grass, marking out where the extension will be built. I look at him and smile suddenly. Dad gestures to the timber and I run over and carefully step on. The timber pieces are longer, I’m much taller and Dad’s hands are more wrinkly as he escorts me to the other end, but I hold his hand tight in mine and cross the finish line with a flourish.