This house was designed around Mum's grand piano. The piano was bought with her inheritance from her mother, and is a most prized possession. However, being such a considerable size, such an item is not able to be shoved into a spare corner once everything else has been installed. Thus, the architect drew a bird's-eye view picture of a grand piano (to scale), and the house grew out from there. Additionally, the whole house was designed with the idea that when the piano was played, it could be heard from every room. And indeed it was, even downstairs in the garage. Many's the time that Mum would start playing some songs, and gradually the members of her family would be drawn into the lounge, singing along, playing their own instruments (flute, drums, percussion, guitar). (How bucolic)
On the last day that the piano was in the house, Mum played two special songs, as if to seal them into the walls which have absorbed so many notes in the past fourteen years. Those two songs were "Piano Man" by Billy Joel (Dad's favourite), and the hymn, "Great Is Thy Faithfulness" (Mum's favourite, and her Mum's [my Gran's] favourite).
There are so many specific design features I could mention, that made this house our home. Every room was designed to have at least two sources of natural light. In the lounge, there were no clocks, stereos (the speakers from the stereo in the family room were hidden up near the roof), televisions, or any distracting features, other than the fireplace and some photos of my siblings and I, and the grand piano, as well as an astonishingly beautiful view over the neighbouring bush-clad valley. My parents wanted this room to be somewhere peaceful. I think this was my favourite room of the entire house, as it was at the top of the stairs from the garage, with my parents' bedroom on one side, and the kitchen on the other - so you could always keep tabs on what was going on. Some of my most treasured memories are the times when it was raining, and I would drag my duvet off my bed, choose a favourite book, turn the big couch around so it was facing the window, and watch the pellets of water tumble down into the hectares of bush outside. Never in any other space since have I felt so safe, so astounded by the beauty of nature, so restful.
There are other things too, such as the hallway lined with little 'runway' lights; the temperamental lighting system, controlled by computer, and little 'touch buttons' instead of switches; the musty-smelling storage room under the stairs walled in by concrete blocks that I one day referred jokingly to as 'the bombshelter' - and the name stuck; the wooden floor of the games room made of recycled matai that my parents rescued from an old warehouse being torn down; the pool which you could dive into off the deck... I'm sinking into nostalgia here, which is a dangerous place to be.
The house was sold to an organisation called "Mercy Ministries" (http://www.mercyministries.org.nz/), who provide residential care for young girls who are pregnant, have eating disorders, that sort of thing. They are connected to the Hillsong group, and my aunt knew someone who knew someone (etc). They were looking for a new place to buy to increase the amount of participants in the programme, and came to visit, just a few weeks after Mum had started thinking about putting the house on the market. They fell in love with it, and as it has 5 bedrooms (or 6 if you count the 'rumpus room' downstairs, which used to be my bedroom), could see the potential. They will make many changes, such as converting the three-car garage into a counselling room, the rumpus room into a schoolroom, and so on.
I am sad that the house has been sold, as I cherish all the memories connected to it. However, it had to be done, and I am glad that it is going to be used for good.
So many things have happened in this house. Loves, losses, laughter, parties beyond number, bbqs too myriad to count, several 21st parties, a 50th birthday party, innumerable house-guests (some staying days, others years), celebrations, arguments, tears, sing-a-longs, messes, silence, creativity.
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My Dad died in this house, on May 16th 2003, at 4:15pm. He had always said, throughout the designing, building, moving-in, settling-in, enjoying-the-house processes, "I'm never leaving this house. You'll have to carry me out in a box." It's as if he knew.
On Friday, the last time that Mum left this house, she took with her one very special item that she had deliberately left aside while everything else was packed up: the small wooden box with Dad's ashes in it. So, as she left our wonderful family home, full of so many memories and good times, she carried Dad out in a box.
