Christmas Eve

The unit we were renting in Ettalong was sold. The owner had been considerate, letting us stay during the sale, as we were hoping our own home in Umina would be finished when it was time to move. My husband, David, was an owner builder doing his best, juggling work and study. 

As the settlement date loomed, our new house, a pole home half way up the hill from Greenhaven Drive to Castle Circuit, was still unfinished. It was almost Christmas and holiday time, so we decided to move into our unfinished home rather than look for another unit to rent.

Christmas Eve, 1986, was moving day. In the morning, the children and I went Christmas shopping. David was in charge of moving the furniture. He had booked a crane to do most of the heavy lifting. Items were positioned on a sturdy pallet and lifted 15 metres to the front veranda. The piano almost didn’t make it — it lurched precariously back and forward in mid-air and a wheel snagged a veranda board as it was pulled to safety. The hole is still there.

It was a balmy summer evening. We were excited, on an adventure. Large windows gave onto the bush, and a view of blue sky and treetops across to East Gosford. The high raked ceiling felt so spacious after the confines of a unit. With our table set up in the dining room, we ate ham and salad for tea. Christmas beetles with their sparkling bodies buzzed about, adding decoration to our celebration.

That first night, with all our furniture piled around us in one room, we slept with our four children close by. In the middle of the night, we were woken by possums. They were helping themselves to our kitchen supplies. Dave chased them, flicking a towel, and they scattered through the exposed framing. Deterred by our one electric light, they soon disappeared outside through an open window. 

Our new house was nestled between the tops of two large angophoras. Fragrant blossoms littered the veranda on Christmas morning. That first night felt like luxury, camping in our own home in our own piece of bush.