My grandfather was an architect trained in Holland in the early 1900’s before the world went crazy and wars erupted. He came from a long line of architects, who had been instrumental in constructing many of the buildings in Rotterdam, which would probably still be standing today, had the city not been decimated by German bombs in the Second World War. He missed all of that, by then he was living in South Africa and his job, at that point was the municipal architect in a tiny mining town called Springs. Post the war, the town needed to develop housing and his task was to design all the houses in the new suburb, as well as plan and design the suburbs recreational facilities like the swimming pool and tennis clubs. I imagine him sitting at his drawing table, hand drawing blueprints of houses, his precise lines, his mathematics and his perfect print laying out the suburbs that would later unfold. I wonder if he had an inkling that one of the houses he designed would hold his young daughters and that later his younger daughter would live there when she got married and in turn, her children would be born there?

A few weeks ago we sold this house to new owners, it had been in our family for 65 years. It rose off the paper, my grandfather had drawn it on. He probably had a pipe in the corner of his mouth as he drew it, puffing smoke into the air as he considered its structure. He would not have realised that he was not just drawing bricks and mortar and plumbing systems, but that he was drawing the space that would hold my mother’s childhood, my sister’s and my childhood and our children’s childhoods. Did he see us running through the garden to get away from the gnome we believed lived under the hedge? Did he know that the pine tree would develop a bump on its side that we would be convinced housed a miniature witch? Did he know that in the tiny ventilation brick near the front door, that I would park my little matchbox cars and that my sister and I would pedal our tricycles fiercely on the bricks outside the front door? Did he leave space in the plans for the graffiti we would leave as children? The giant spider my aunt etched into the internal concrete wall in the garage, that is still there today and the initials of three generations of heart targets carved behind the kitchen door? Did he know his girls would scratch their love hopes into the wall?
Did he realise that the angle of the back door in the kitchen was perfect for me to hide behind and water bomb my father as he finished mowing the lawn? Did he draw in a long line of furry friends who over the years found the house and added to the crazy energy? Did he plan neighbours who would become part of the family and did he draw cups of sugar and cup cakes being traded over the fence?

I am sure he had no idea as the ink dried on the plans, that he had constructed a place where generations of his would store their memories. Where our heart aches and desires would dwell and be realised. The new owners are buying a ‘fixer-upper,’ a place, where they will perhaps bring up their own children, If those walls could speak, what a story they would tell.

Share on Facebook

Uncategorized