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“Never before has homage been given
To something so commonly raised,
In this White House a life has been lived
And so now we must offer our praise...”

Street after street stretches out across suburbia, an ever changing landscape where the joys and tragedies of simple life are played out at a daily rate. Following the footpath to the first day of school, swinging by the supermarket for a trolley full of supplies, or idling the car home from a hard week at work, we all come back to the one place that accepts us for who we are. Behind each fence, the quarter-acre block, each one a different world, a private oasis to prune and to shape as you will. And at the heart of family life, the white house endures, with its sandstone foundations and hard wooden beams. The hands of time have taken their toll – other homes have fallen or been forcedly renewed. Ours remains, like a temple, resplendent in white. A tribute to the triumph and longevity of the working class struggle that has raised our young nation like the bricks in the wall.

But where would one even begin to appreciate an object of such reliance, affection and belonging? The front door I guess, is as good a place as any – it stands at the face of the house and boldly welcomes the stranger and family member alike. Its solid square form reflecting the light, with three vertical panels below and eight panes of frosted glass above. There is a brass lock and bell, the latter of which may never have worked; but the jewel of this piece is a moulded amber handle, blossoming from the centre of the woodwork to greet the visitor’s hand.

The door is sealed shut with no sign of response, so I take a step back to admire the surrounding porch. I love this spot. With its ochre shaded floor tiles of geometric forms it is a touch of Federation elegance. I come out here to check on the weather or spy on the street. Just down a step, the front yard is parched and balding of grass. It catches the afternoon sun which is not quite enough, though a few beds of roses have survived the lack of attention and still occasionally bloom in magenta and red, if only sporadically. The front fence holds on, its wooden grey palings cling stubbornly by a few nails. It has been falling down for a long time but nobody seems to care. At one end a letter box perched high on a corner post receives the tidings of the day while at the other an iron-belled meter ticks water usage away. Outside sharp blades of buffalo grass creep clumsily over the footpath edges to the dismay of pedantic neighbours.

The facade of the house has resisted change. Its pastry-like rendering now flakes off in chips. Split wooden shingles have dropped from the peak of the roof coming to rest on top of the window where a fibreglass awning harbours mould beneath its sun-brittle surface. At the base of the window a flower box hangs, empty and doubtful that it will ever accomplish its cardinal motive. Concrete pavement encircles the house like a moat that serves the citadel – the only invaders here being weeds and violets poking their heads through millimetre cracks, and a small army of ants planning their next line of attack. To the left side, the driveway; two more-or-less parallel tracks of concrete slabs that wobble under the weight of passing vehicles and jolt out of the ground at disobedient angles. They lead to the garage where a half-shrivelled tomato plant awaits its next watering. The path turns the corner and stems off down the yard where an iron-clad washing hoist stands dependably. Its wires and pegs are tacky and loose, its height rusted shut in the one unchangeable position, but that's no concern, only one person has ever really used it. Here white sheets blow happily in an afternoon breeze as they have done for years.

Opposite, a Jacaranda shares its purple flame. Pigeons and Mynah birds paddle down from its branches to fight over crusts of bread left for the taking. A pair of Magpies scrounge through compost clippings in search of a meal, while around the perimeter rotting scraps of timber are piled high and car parts rust away in heavenly Holden peace. The house may be small but the block is enormous – such was the luxury of these early sprawling suburbs. Scruffy blooms of Oleander and Holly remain focal points. I have felt the spiky embrace of the latter on more than one occasion, misfielding a catch in a game of backyard cricket, or being caught in a rugby tackle with extra spite. The ground gets messy at certain times of the year when shrivelled buds and browning leaves fall relentlessly, but the trees do well, and always seem to regenerate themselves with their falling bounty of Autumn fare.

Over the garage, glossy green leaves of giant monsteria droop and climb back over themselves almost uncontrollably. Corrugated sheets of iron peel down from the structure’s roof, dripping rain through holes in the crooked guttering below. A length of hose winds its way through the garden and returns somewhere near the foot of a roll-a-door that rises shakily with the twist of a key. Inside, the smell of oil greets the senses. Dead batteries, half-filled jerry cans, and ice-cream buckets laden with rusty nails lie around in a collective state of decaying readiness. Though nothing much of relevance still exists here since the eldest son moved on taking anything of remote mechanical significance with him. Shelves and cupboards topple tins of paint out onto the dirty floor. Up above, dimpled surfboards, mismatched roof racks and ladders straddle the beams while a home made bench with a blue vice as its centrepiece exhibits the more vital tools – a broken hammer, a blunt saw, a few shifters and shiny sockets. It may be dark, dingy and perhaps in need of demolition, but it is a retreat, almost a haven, and a source of inspiration. A place it seems where man is many things and almost anything can be accomplished with a few loose screws and a bit of old-fashioned elbow grease.

Rivalling this is an outdoor laundry – a kind of spider-webbed museum to the history of washing. Here, a white machine rumbles its furious drone through the flimsy panels of fibro walls. Buckets and powders lay scattered around the feet of a dilapidated Metters boiler, a block of Solvol and scrubbing brushes on top. In the corner a cane basket refuses to resurface fashions that were once considered modern but now just fall into the category of rags. A black leather belt squirms down from a wooden backed mirror to a concrete dual tub that could easily become livestock feeder with the right amount of hay. Loose bricks hold up the window sill, while half-chewed electrical wire trails its way along the beams beneath a leaky tin roof. One couldn’t even call this structure safe.

Walking quickly around the dimly lit cavern of an outdoor toilet, we step up to the back verandah, which is similarly arranged again but with a more sporting theme. This is where wet towels are hung to drip from the roof where the uniform terracotta-red of the Lion tile company Enfield look over splintery weathered floorboards below. A cat stands guard and inadvertently faces inward when hungry. She has found this the best location to be in as there is always some form of traffic coming or going. A meteorological device is mounted to the wall trying in vein to impress, under which is a styrofoam strongbox, holding such treasures as golf clubs, tennis balls and cricket bats, which may all be used in the course of one game then be stacked away not to show up for months. A couple of plastic chairs are also here, facing out to the yard, as above all, although cramped, this does remain a nice place to sit – to sip at a leisurely cup of coffee when the full warmth of the morning sun awakens the senses, or a cool beer in the late afternoon when the harsh glare of the day has eased.

We enter the house through a fly screen door, its mesh torn open by many probing young fingers. This is by far the more utilised entrance and opens up directly into an airy chamber, the so-called Dining Room. There is no need to leave your shoes at the door, just wander straight in. Fluorescent lighting picks out the cracks in the wall. A large wooden table covered in lace-edged cloth serves its purpose, not only for food but also as a place to read the weekend paper. The carpet around it has met its fair share of spills, perhaps testament to the great number of home-cooked meals enjoyed here. A long mantelpiece displays the crystal wares of the more formal side of proceedings, though not immune from accident itself as can be seen in the mismatch of wine and champagne glass sets. A smaller kitchen table is moved in for extra large banquets to accommodate the ravenous kids. Flaking postcards, travelled trinkets and the odd trophy compete for valuable space on the top shelf while envelopes, boxes of NRMA road maps and unused board games fill the cupboards. At one end a telephone is crowded by pens that refuse to write at the best of times and paper notes that disappear at the most urgent times. Keys are also hung here in the theory it is the safest and most convenient place, but they have been known to disappear on more than one occasion.

Facing this room, a place where monotony and creativity can mix together and stew for hours, the kitchen. The peeling of garlic or the slow bubbling of lamb roast in the oven can almost be smelled if you unblock your nose. I can almost hear the clanging of pots and pans and mother sifting through the clutter of shelves while trying to get the attention of the whole family to sit down to dinner. A hopelessly clambered space, it lacks the ventilation and convenience of the modern kitchen but has served its purpose of providing meals for the growing family without much more request than a lick of paint every few years. An Early Kooka stands off against a more conventional microwave. Tea towels fly like flags over a sink. Calendars hang from the wall while ripened fruit spreads its light from a bowl in the corner. In and around the cupboards, strange coffee machines mingle with jaffle irons and ice-cream cones, too many plates stack up beside not enough glasses, and drawers of silverware clang in and out alongside less definitive utensils. Occasionally a white Kelvinator kicks in with its electric buzzing from a socket by the windowsill, where a toaster and kettle perform their mundane duties...

Just around the corner, the bathroom is placed conveniently in the middle of the house. Actually, it is hard to miss with its bright turquoise finish and beach-themed dolphin curtain draped debonair over an old enamel tub. A vintage gas heating system holds on to its rusty winding pipes and threatens to blow the top off every time its lit. Hiding behind a cracked mirror the medicine cabinet reveals a treasure trove of potions and lotions, from Old Spice to "Double D" eucalyptus oil. Tweezers, nail files, hair combs and cotton tips can all be found here if you’re willing to fossick and have the patience. There is also a shoe cabinet, but even the dried out tubs of Kiwi polish can’t do enough to bring back the dead slippers and sandals that have been left to dwell here. The slight waft of Dettol and Baby Powder mix in the air as plumes of hot steam bubble and puff their way up to a mildewed ceiling where an overhead hatch is the only possible entrance to a whole separate world, the attic.

We follow the hall to a kind of oddity, an outdated emptiness that has simply become known as the Middle Room. This was obviously a nursery at one stage as told by the storybook scenes of galloping bunnies and toadstool forests adorning the walls, painted by a prudent young mum and revealing hidden talents not since explored. It has in time become used as a walk through area – storage for the likes of folded sheets, umbrellas, old boots, a sofa, anything that doesn’t have any other place to belong. The trodden carpet is discoloured and in desperate need of replacement, its stripes lead to a cavity and another era of mum’s life where she would sit crouched over a Brother sewing machine late into the evening with a night lamp shining and fingers at the point of failing. Perhaps her constant arthritis is another powerful echo of those cold lonely nights.

The master bedroom is certainly the grandest of the house with its high ornate plaster ceilings and marbled glass fittings. Floral wallpaper clings with its roses and vines except in one corner where it is wriggling slowly free. Warm soft sunlight filters through the tangled steel venetians and fills the dank musky perfumed air. A large oval mirror reflects memories in wedding frames, childhood albums of black and white. Some penniless jewellery sits in a drawer by the bedside, porcelain dolls stare out quaintly above. Years of used wrapping paper are folded and saved inside art deco cupboards while accordion files keep the business end in order.

There is a certain calmness, an astuteness in here that is reserved from the rest of the house, perhaps passed on by the spirit of its inhabitants. You could lay back on that magnificent bed and almost drift off into another time, decades ago, when the world seemed young and the paint on the walls unfaded. In any case, the room was always off limits to kids, but the best place to head for a sneaky game of hide and seek or to try and catch an early glimpse of the Christmas presents the end of year would bring.

There are two other bedrooms, both added on. Raised on brick pillars, the floors and walls move differently to the rest of the house. Inside, there are standard lodgings; soft mattress, small desk, an assortment of paraphernalia crowding the shelves. Particles rise and fall in the sunlight like the fallout of a supernova. There have been several attempts to make improvement here – polished floorboards, refitted blinds – but nothing has worked. Dusty and cramped, too hot in the summer, such were the setbacks of these humble dwellings that answered the call from another era. The family was growing and the white house had to grow with it. They have all moved on now and ahead to their own personal pursuits, but whether they realise or not, some of the best days of their lives took place right here.

The hall leads us back to the final ensemble, the largest room of the house, and by far the most used, the lounge room. There is a definite feel of being well lived-in, like a decades old couch – long and broad it slumps in the middle where the padding is worn from father’s elbows and knees. He could often be seen here eyeballing the evening news or catching a late movie, us kids crouching silently in the doorway trying to look on long after being sent to bed... “Go to sleep!” the squawk would bellow, military-like as our giggles muffled out through the hall.

Just as the members of the family converge here, so too is there a meeting of styles throughout the ages – an antique VHS recorder plugs into a wide screen television, both sitting on top of a cedar radio and gramophone set of His Masters Voice, broadcasting the dial of the six states of Australia in AM and short wave, and housing a marvellous collection of 45’s and LP’s within its polished cabinets. The fanciful themes of the ceilings continue, gleaming and rich in their plasterwork right down to the intricate vents. A broken cross is mounted by the door and hints to the family’s catholic links, still aroused twice a year at Christmas and Easter. A long flowing curtain, dreary green and difficult to manoeuvre pulls aside to reveal a close up view of the neighbour’s fence. But it’s not the only thing being concealed from view, an original fireplace used to burn freely and send white clouds of smoke up through a terracotta topped chimney. It was boarded up as was the fashion of the day and all that shows today is a gaudy panel of top to bottom stained wooden slats. A steel bodied Clark heater provides the warmth nowadays, converted to natural gas it makes a good job of it too. Framed tapestries and 70's Geisha prints face each other from around the walls, not much to look at but mother adores them, and they certainly don’t detract from the main event of television. Another asset of this room is its instant ability to facilitate an overstaying guest (often an out of town cousin) with the simple but clumsy activation of a fold-out sofa – not a great night’s sleep but who could complain. Overlooked it may be that one of the great facets of the White House in general is its to ability to adapt and transform as required, to become whatever it is that we ask of it, to creak with us but to hold us tight.

Our wealth and our history are behind these walls. Now tired and run down, there is a crumbling decrepit decay creeping in. Strangers may look at the house with disdain, a wreck that should have been torn down and demolished years ago – but who are these people, they are just passers-by. They have little idea of the kind of sentiment and synergy this place evokes within the realms of our hearts. There were times where the world didn’t exist beyond the six foot fence of the backyard. It was paid for years ago by the toil of our immigrant parents, and we have all reaped their reward... The gift of coming to a free country and working towards a goal, a tangible symbol of something to strive for. This was our home, the dream may be cliched but the white house is not. This was our home, something we secured with sweat and love and now have to let go...

And so as I pull closed the back door, and turn the lock that I have turned many times before, I take one last look from the outside. I look at the white painted bricks, at the split beams of the porch, at the clutterous rows of tiles on the roof. And I think of how it has been there for us, sheltered and protected us, comforted us, a growing and evolving family. And I am filled with joy and awe at this humble sight, this simple structure, this building that has been so much a part of our lives that it is hard to leave. And I wonder how long it will be left to stand in all its fading glory. Perhaps, like the family members themselves, like mother and father and all of the kids, perhaps it too has a limited life. A life that is conceived, raised from the ground, allowed to shine through its youth then slowly degrade to the point where it eventually runs out of purpose and dies. This is our fate, perhaps this too is the fate of the white house, a friend that has been there for us, but only so long as we have been there for it. Growing from nothing, giving us everything, our attachment to this house will never be forgotten.