The Wooden House -

We were pretty lucky when we were younger, lucky enough to have a holiday house up the coast. It was located at Smiths Lake which was about 20 mins outside of Forster. The suburb was small, probably only a couple of football fields that was surrounded by a lake. One way in, and one way out. Mother and father had purchased a block of land that was on a vertical slant of 45 degrees that led up the hill into the forest. Smith’s lake would have bored the crap out of any high schooler. There was the lake to swim in, and a coffee shop and that was it. My sister and I ran up and down the coffee shop, disturbing anyone unfortunate enough to be there at the time, but that was all the excitement to be found at Smiths Lake.

It was less of getaway than a project. The building process had only just begun, so my sister and I were treated like child labour. Like we were living in a third world country, mother and father put the kids to work. Whether it was building the retaining wall, a wall that consisted of packing over 200 tires with dirt and plants, or clearing bush weeds, there was always plenty of work for healthy young children to do. Had either of us been unhealthy children, I don’t think that would have excused us from the back-breaking labour of building a holiday home in the Australian bush with our bare hands. We had the holiday house from the time I was 4 until I was about 14. I’m not clear on the exact dates, but it was definitely pre-school until well into my puberty years. (Editor's note: Unless you experienced precocious puberty, it was a lot older than 14. 14-year-old boys may feel like grown men, but outside of a few medical exceptions, boys are not ‘well into puberty’ at 14. I suspect that if Brendon’s parents owned the place until he was ‘well on his way to adulthood’ then they haven’t yet sold the place. Probably due to sell it just before his 70th birthday by my calculations) There was so many defining and happy moments at Smiths Lake. From the 3-hour car trips up and back, to the shared goal of building our perfect dream holiday house. I bitch about the physical labour aspect of it, but there is something to be said for making things with your own hands. Even I had a sense of pride when I looked at that damn retaining wall. I made that, fuck I MADE that. That wall there, holding back the earth, I made that.

The one story I do think that needs to be told, was the story about painting and some kind of sexual awakening. I was given a bucket of oil paint and told to paint the outside of the house around the kitchen area. It was a wood of some sort, let’s not focus on the specifics. I was young, I was ADHD, and I was bored. So, when I stepped up upon my magical ladder to paint the thick juicy wood it was an almost sexual experience. It could have been the fact I was surrounded by nature; it could have been the chemicals wafting off the paint, it could have been simply that I am a bit messed up, and ever so slightly perverted. I decided that as well as the wood, my arse needed a coat of oil, my arse deserved to glisten in the sun in all its glory.

As usual, young me didn’t worry about things like safety. I didn’t climb down the ladder; I just slathered my arse from top to bottom while perched atop a ladder. The oil started to seep through the fabric and soon started to penetrate the skin underneath. The more macho, DIYerish among you will know that when oil paint dries, it hardens. My mum wandered outside and asked me why my bum was covered in oil paint. I had no reasonable answer then, and I have no reasonable answer now. My arse was painted because it felt like a good idea at the time. My mother realising, little to no progress was being made on the wall painting, told me to climb down and tried to help me clean up the mess. Oil paint is full on stuff. When it dries it hardens, and it's really hard to get off. Despite the scrubbing, it took about a week for all the paint to come off. I spent several days with an arse that cracked and flaked each time I bent over, but I was young enough and stupid enough not to care. I wonder if that paint brush represented some sort of phallic symbol, and that oil paint represented something else. Was it being surrounded by literal wood, that brought on my own wood? Was I just high on paint fumes? Was it just my natural instincts coming through for the first time? Who knows? But out there on that ladder, surrounded by the Australian bush, with a bucket of oily paint in my hand, I experienced a sexual awakening.