THE WAY.

Part 2 of 12

Mike sank into the rocking chair on the verandah. Pete and Alice sat down talking energetically about the best types of timber to use in a chair that she was going to make. Jan and Amanda joined Gran in a flurry of activity in the kitchen. At one stage Jan ran down the steps to the edge of the garden, plucked bits of mint and other herbs, came back to the table and chopped them into the salad. Within minutes bowls of salad and bread rolls and fruit were being placed on the table.

After lunch Mike found himself for the first time with a moment on his own. He went upstairs, took some things from his case, put the folder of work on the edge of the dressing table, then sat on the bed. His mind drifted to the kind of house Jan and Pete lived in. It was fairly normal, but small and quite old, and…one might say somewhat drab, at least in need of a coat of paint. It was neat and tidy but there were patches of paint off walls, worn surfaces and bare wood showing through varnish here and there. Eleanor would definitely not have approved. No microwave. No blender. And a wood stove. Although the wood box loaded from outside the house, through its own little door, there were wood chips and bits of bark on the floor. Enough to send Eleanor into paroxysms…but she’d soon get the cleaning lady in to deal with that.

The main table was topped with unpainted scrubbed pine planks. The chairs didn’t match and were all simple and old. Some of the cushions were a little threadbare. Bumps in the old floor boards showed where the nail heads were. Irregular cracks between the wide planks. Some burn marks where the open fire must have fallen out from time to time. No carpets but some tough looking mats and some thick woollen ones near the open fire, probably made from bits of old jumpers by the look of them. Many pots and pans hanging from hooks above the kitchen table, along with strings of dry herbs, onions, and figs. Racks and stands holding vegetables, fruit and crockery containers. No sign of packaged foods anywhere. Couldn’t judge the couch as it was covered in shawls and table cloths, but it too seemed ancient, with one end a little higher than the other. An d the complex aromas, as if years of spices and herbs had soaked into everything.

What to make of it all? Well, it seemed convenient and functional, but Eleanor would have seen it as anything but “nice”, indeed she’d have seen it as unacceptable, indeed distinctly off-putting. Not the sort of house you’d be proud to show your friends around. No scope for receiving flattering little compliments here. Nothing that could have been in fashion within the last two decades. Must remember to ask Jan where the fridge is; doesn’t seem to be one in the kitchen.

He wasn’t left alone for long. Pete called up the stairs, “Time to take Mike to the workshop. The painters will be there today.”

“OK. Good idea just wait till I get those grapefruit, ” Jan called from somewhere.

“We have this fabulous tree out front,” Pete said as Mike came down. “It goes mad every two years. Produces nothing in the year between, but right now we have stacks more than we can use. So Jan’s getting some to take to the workshop”.

“What for?”

“Oh just to leave there for someone to take them”.

“At a workshop?”

“Well it’s much more than a workshop. Lots of things happen there. You’ll see soon”.

Jan came through the house carrying two overloaded baskets, stacked with big yellow grapefruit.

“Here let me take some,” said Mike.

Jan fussed around and split the load into three hessian bags, and they all moved down the steps and into the lane.

Only about 200 metres from the house the path opened out into a large more open parklike space which must have been where the road had been dug up for a whole block. To one side there were several little shops around the edge of the green. There was a pond in the centre, and nearby seats and ornamental shelters. There were bike racks and swings and a sea saw. Several people were around, some sitting and chatting, some on bicycles.

“This is city centre, “ said Jan. This is our village green. You can see it was a street once.” She waved towards the line of houses discernible between the foliage.

“Can’t see any cars now,” said Mike.

“No. Plenty of bikes though. There’s a narrow road leading to a small parking lot for cars around the back, behind the shops.”

They walked across the green to one of the bigger buildings, two stories high, quite open at the front, with a balcony extending out over the path, covering a variety of objects and people. Some were sitting and chatting, some obviously making things. Some people were sitting at the outdoor tables of a little restaurant. As they came closer Mike could see more clearly into the hall-like interior cluttered with benches and tools and shelves and things hanging on the walls, with more people moving around or working. He could hear hammering and sawing, and the sound of someone practising on a saxaphone.

Pete announced, “Well, here we are. This is the main community workshop for the town. There’s one in each neighbourhood of about 300 people, but this one’s big because it’s where the whole town meets for concerts and festivals. It’s the closest one to us so its also the one people in our neighbourhood use any old time. Lots of things happen at neighbourhood workshops. Firstly this is where people can make and repair things. Few people around here would have an electric drill at home, because there are three or four here they can borrow. And for heavier jobs there is a drill press, and there’s a saw bench, and a metal turning lathe.”

Jan took up the explanation. “Out the back on the other side there’s a recycling area. Anything that people don’t need they just leave so others might be able to use it or make something from it. There’s an area for toys and one for clothes, inside I mean. There are bigger areas outside for building materials, including sheets of old roofing iron, bricks and bottles, wire, bikes...you name it. Many racks for bits of wood.”

“Who looks after it all?” Mike asked.

“Well, everyone. People come in all the time and sort things and fix up the racks a bit. But if you mean who attends to the overall management of the place, well there’s a committee -- about five people who informally keep an eye on what needs doing. Occasionally they’ll organise a working bee to clean up or build another rack or fix the roof or repaint.”

“So what else happens here?” Mike asked as they moved through the wide doorway.

“It’s also a leisure centre. See, there’s a ping pong table, easy chairs, coffee maker in these front rooms. Up on the first floor is our library, and over there several information boards. Look, these are notices from various clubs and groups about coming events. Here’s a panel with swap and freebee notes on it. See, Alice Fenton wants someone to take her surplus apricots next week and she’d prefer to swap for fruit of another kind. She is a bit old to harvest her trees now but she’s a keen fruit bottler. This looks like the Thompson family has some ducklings to give away.”

”Here’s where we’ll leave the grapefruit,” said Jan. “When anyone has a surplus of anything they just leave them here at the workshop on that bench so others can take them. Look there’s some beans there, and what’s that ... some jars of jam. These up the front here are just things that should be taken soon. Anything durable like clothing or timber would be put out the back in the racks. There’s a TV set over there. If there’s anything good on TV Pete and I come down here. We don’t own one. There are some computers upstairs, and things like cameras that can be borrowed. This is actually a tool library. Ever heard of that?”

“No,” said Mike.

“Well just like a book library. How often do you want a stepladder? No point in having one if you only use it twice a year. Best to just pop down to the neighbourhood workshop and borrow one. Same with electric drills and picks and saws. Some workshops hire things, but we don‘t. They’re just here to be borrowed. This is also where many of our neighbourhood committees meet.”

“Come in to the main hall,” said Jan, but was then caught up in conversation with another couple.

Pete and Mike moved a few metres from the surplus swap area, through a low opening and more or less burst into a large space with no ceiling, but heavy poles going up to two stories past galleries to the roof beams. The whole thing was built out of un-sawn logs, including the wooden stairs and railings. In the centre of the far wall was a large, open fireplace, with racks of firewood and logs alongside, and old-fashioned iron crane swung out from the fire, holding a large iron pot. Tongs and pokers hung from a rail. People were here and there doing various things and several barefoot and scruffy kids were romping in a pile of mats near the fireplace. There were seats, tables and rugs strew around, and stacks of chairs. In the centre of he space was a huge and elaborate chandalier, although it was not lit.

Along another wall several deep old armchairs could be seen, and to the left a wide wooden staircase to the upper floor galleries running right around the open inner space. Mike could see rooms opening off the galleries and could hear unseen people in some of them. There were many paintings, sculptures and tapestries hanging from the walls. To the right there was an archway into the restaurant he’d seen from the outside. A few people were sitting at chairs and tables set out in the large hall and Mike could see others out on the green past the wide door of the restaurant.

“This space is where we have our big town meetings and concerts and festivals. Now out here is the main general workshop. See, benches, drill press, tools and jobs under way. Let’s go out.”

Pete approached a young man in overalls. “Hi there, what you doing? Oh Sam this is Mike.”

“How are you Mike? Knew you were coming today. I’m welding Paddy’s Gate. Hinge broke. By the way we need another oxy cylinder, this one’s getting low. Pete can you jot that on the reorder list, before I forget”.

“OK. What list is it?” Pete looked through many pieces of paper clipped to a large notice board. “Got it. What size cylinder Sam?”

Mike strolled around the large shed. There were many half completed projects lying around. Racks of materials, shelves of tools, bolts, hinges. Two other people were down one end bending tubes in a jig. Another large open door led into a room with many racks holding bits of glass, and sheets of tin. Some seemed new, but much of it was obviously recycled.

“Mike,” Pete called. “See these vents. On cold nights a little fan pushes hot air from a chamber in the fireplace out through these to warm the whole place, or whatever parts someone is using. See just open the vents where you are working. Now come up the stairs”.

Mike was nearly hit by two little kids who climbed over the railings at the top of the stairs and raced down recklessly.

“Careful Alistair,” Pete called after them. “You got to be …” recognizing his wisdom was having no impact, “…careful.”

“Now these are meeting and craft rooms and over there around the gallery are the library and computer rooms. Ah, here are the water colour people. The potter’s work out the back on the ground floor. We’ll see if anyone’s there soon.”

He stood back and ushered Mike into a fairly small room. The walls were crammed with paintings and drawings pinned to every bare patch. Four people looked up and greeted Pete who introduced them.

“Where’s everybody today?” said Pete.

“Dunno. We had ten last week though and half of us had to set up on the balcony. But Timothy had come over from Scottsdale to show us his techniques so there were more than usual”.

“Mind if I have a look?” said Mike.

“Oh no, but I’m a novice. These three have been at it for years, but look at what Dee’s doing. She is our flower specialist. Look at that one on the wall. Don’t you just love the way she does roses”.

Soon Pete called, “Mike come out to the balcony.”

In the outer wall of the room a large double door opened onto the outside balcony running the length of the building and overlooking the outdoor restaurant tables. As Mike looked out he was confronted by the large grassed village green where the street had once been, dotted with ponds, shrubs and trees. He could now see that there were many seats around the edge, evidently for spectators to watch events in the centre.

“That’s where all the outdoor games and festivals happen,” said Pete. They went back to the painters for a few minutes then Pete said, “Now it’s time for a cuppa at Marios”.

“Marios?”

“Yes that’s the restaurant.”

They went down the stairs where Mike’s attention was again taken by all the art works pinned to walls and just standing on galleries and landings. Pete saw him inspecting some of them.

“The workshop’s also an art gallery. People leave many of their works here for the rest of us to enjoy. Many of them are still being worked on of course. Come out here into the pottery”.

At the foot of the stairs Pete turned away from the restaurant tables and in a few paces had gone through another arch into a shed, crammed with tubs, clay, dusty benches, and shelves holding pots and mugs. Again people were working and two greeted Pete. Mike could see a kiln and large stacks of wood. Through a long opening in the wall he could see pottery equipment set out in the open area, tubs of water and clay, broken pots and some very large bowls and vases.

Beside the workshop was a long bicycle rack with several bikes in it. “Hmm,” said Pete, looking at one and stroking his chin.

What’s the matter?” said Mike.

“That’s not a good sign,” Said Pete.

“What?”

“The lock.”

Mike looked to where Pete was pointing. One of the bikes had a light chain and lock around the bike rack. He looked back at Pete.

“So? What’s the problem?”

“The lock,” Pete said, almost to himself, still stoking his chin.

“What about the lock?” said Mike, trying to break into Pete’s daydream.

“Why is it there? Maybe its someone visiting town. Things aren’t stolen around here. No one locks their doors. I wonder if one of the locals has had something taken lately. Might raise it at the next meeting. Anyway, lets go to Mario’s.”

The restaurant was small, almost cramped. The décor was again saplings, rough sawn planks, rusty bolts and ironwork, and a low ceiling, all hung with interesting objects, some artworks but some old harness and buckets and scythes. Shelves held sculptures and pottery. Here and there were huge vases of newly placed flowers. On one side some tables had spread into the main hall of the workshop through the wide arch, and on the other others had been moved out into the open air on the edge of the green. Then he saw that a doorway on a third side led down a few steps into a grotto-like nook under a low canopy of foliage from densely planted palm trees and ferns.

Pete introduced Mike to a grinning, rotund Mario, and ordered tea and scones. They sat at a table near a small open fire, with a view across the railings into the big hall, and on the other side out to the green.

“This corner here is my little nest, my haven. I love to come in here, especially in winter when I’m cold, and nestle down in my comfy seat here, up against the wall where I can see the log fire there, and feel so warm and cosy, and wrap my cold fingers around a hot mug of Mario’s magic.”

“Haven? I wouldn’t have thought you’d need them here. The Glen doesn’t seem to have many monsters to escape from.”

“That’s true, but I’m basically a mouse, a bit of a whimp. I like to huddle. Some people like me seek out little niches like this, others tend to come in here in groups and take the benches out there in the middle. A big group will remake the whole place, shifting things around.”

“Isn’t this Mario’s property?”

“No, its ours!. Legally he owns it but that’s neither here nor there. The Glen’s full of spots like this people adopt as their own to enjoy, no matter who owns them legally. This is one of my battery-rechargers. Another is around the pot belly in Toms. Another is the fernery there, see. Jan will sit out there under the jungle even in winter. You got havens where you live?”

Pete was drawn into a brief chat with people at a nearby table. When he turned back Mike asked, “How on earth did you get this place, the workshop I mean? It’s huge. It’s like a rabbit’s warren?

“Get it?… We just built it.”

“Must’ve taken a million dollars and a million years?”

“No, no, it’s large but very simple. It’s mostly poles, bolts and old planks for upstairs flooring. Of course the downstairs flooring is just rammed earth, surfaced with linseed oil, beeswax and turpentine. Most of the walls are mud brick. The roof’s the only expensive part, and that’s mostly tin. Eventually we want to tile it, with tiles baked from our clay in our kiln, fired by our wood. But we haven’t got far with that yet. We’ll get there before the iron rusts out. Maybe in 15 years”.

“What about design? What about labour?”

“We had long discussions about different plans. No architect of course. Eventually we had a plan everyone was happy with and that we could manage. One problem was the tendency to go into something too big. I think we got it about right. All this space is used a lot, and it’s walls are so open that when too many people turn up we can spread out onto the green”.

“And labour?”

“Oh that’s us. We just threw it up with working bees. Took about a year to get the main part done. Of course you never build a thing like this all at once. You get enough done in a blitz to be used, and then you take it easy adding more rooms and verandahs as the need arises, at a leisurely pace. That’s the way to build a house too. Most people would turn up to the Saturday working bees, but all the time some people were pottering away.

“Where did you get the timber?”

“From our forests, with one chainsaw and Andy’s Mill. Andy’s got big saws driven by a car engine. He ripped most of the planks”.

“What do you mean our forests?”

“Our forests. I mean, the town owns lots of things. Like ponds, meadows, herb patches, bamboo clumps, lakes, clay pits and forests and plantations. They’re our community property, our commons. We cut quite a few of our trees to make the workshop, but then we replanted. More working bees. Working bees maintain all our commons.”

“Does everyone have to come to working bees?”

“No, no one does. I’m being a bit difficult aren’t I?”

“Yes”.

“What I mean is that they’re all totally voluntary. Some are big and some are small. When you sign up it will say how many the coordinator things are needed for the job. But just about everyone contributes to one or another of them.”

“Why?”

“Because you wouldn’t want to miss them, that’s why! Because they’re very enjoyable. We do lots of different things. Last week we painted that whole windmill in one hour. The week before we built a little mud brick store shed for Billy the Beekeeper. We work with comrades. We might be led by a very experienced mud builder or engineer, so we learn. We get a great sense of enriching our beautiful landscape building or maintaining something that helps everyone around here to thrive. Then when you’ve done the job, you can look at a job well done and feel good. So most people turn up well to working bees”.

“Does anyone not turn up much?”

“Yes, some don’t come as much as they should.”

“What do you do about them?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Quite enough always turn up to get important things done, and that’s all that matters. And people who are a bit sloppy, or unreliable or a bit lazy, become known. We all have our weak spots, so mostly people tolerate failings like that. But yes some people are known to be not so good contributors, and that’s a bit sad. Most of us think it’s important to be respected as someone who works enthusiastically for the good of the community.“

“Take Bill over there,” Pete said, pointing. “Looks like a grumpy old bugger, doesn’t he? But he is just so reliable and hardworking on working bees. We all know he’s a terrific contributor. That’s a reputation you can’t buy. We know he’s a great bloke, and that means he’s respected and valued. He doesn’t need to wear swanky clothes, or speak with a plum in his mouth. His status comes from years of action that people have observed. Just like everyone knows that Harriet is a fabulous cake maker. And Vic will happily fix a wrecked bike, and Emma is a good chairperson and I’m not. When you interact with people over many years, in situations where co-operating and contributing is crucial for maintaining things in good shape, then reputations for reliability and care, consciousness and skill develop. That’s a force for good. People want to be well thought of. But then again I must stress the reason why people contribute by working bees is not fear of bad judgment, but the enjoyment of working with others on important and beneficial tasks. Have you been on a working bee?’

“Me. No”.

“Well, maybe it’s difficult for you to understand all this. Let’s see if we can get you into one while you’re here. Come on,” Pete said, getting up from the table. Mike followed not knowing what Pete was doing.

Pete walked out of Mario’s, across the big hall and into the vestibule, which was lined with notice boards. He moved backward and forwards for a few seconds and then said, “Ah ha, here we are. Look see this messy sheet, it’s where people write suggestions for coming working bee days. The Committee then sorts through them and sets out here what will be done at the next few. See, here are a few for tomorrow afternoon. Lets see, there’s one to prune the big peach orchard, one on a mud brick shed at the timber mill, one cutting down Elsie’s problem tree, and one to help out the Andersons with their honey. Would you like to think about some of those you would like to try?”

“Any one will do me.”

“How about I put us both down for Elsie’s tree. Look at this. This is a list of meeting times for people working in study groups and research groups. There’s one on Thursdays learning basic heat mechanics from Mike Wilson. That ‘s important for making greenhouses and solar passive housing. And heres May’s group. They’re revising our list of cheap but nutritious recipes from local ingredients. Actually many of them are roadside weeds. Then there’s the experimental planting group. They’re always getting more information on different plant varieties to try. And if you like you could join the lead light beginner’s group.”

”What if I wanted to learn something not being taught?”

“Then just put up a note on the board. You’ll probably find someone in the area who can teach you.”

“Why not have all this accessed by computer?

“Oh yes you could. We organise lots of things that way. But we try not to do everything that way; not good if everyone’s sitting at home to do everything. Best if we have to get out and run into people.”

As they were standing at the notice boards. Jan came into view.

”Has Pete got you tea yet?”

“Yes, we have a nice cuppa.”

“Good. Let’s go back via Godfreys”, said Jan.

“Good idea,” said Pete. “Godfrey and Fran have just finished their little cottage. It’s a good example of how we build houses here. Our house is one of the originals, that was here when we came, built a hundred years ago, made of weather board, so we retrofitted it. I mean fixed it up with insulation, put in solar heating and more water tanks, and the greenhouse. But these days any new house is built from earth, and with good solar passive design right from the start.”

After a five minute walk through twisting lanes, across lawns, through thickets, around ponds and right through some private gardens they came to a neat but tiny little new house with scraps of building materials scattered around the minced up ground. Jan knocked on the door and called out.

Pete pointed to the walls and explained that they were rammed earth, rendered with a coat of paint made from lime and milk -- basically a whitewash. “The 40 cm thickness of the earth walls provides good insulation, and the windows are double glazed with mostly small square panes. Most of this was broken glass sheets, we just cut lots of 20 to 30cm squares from them. See how they are set in a thin line of cement? It looks like lead lighting from a distance doesn’t it? The lines are not very smooth, but I think it gives it a rustic charm. Anyway they’ll last for ever, and never need painting, and are extremely cheap. See over there? Some of the windows are real lead light with coloured glass. Fran made them all. She’d never done that before, but lots of people around here can do lead lighting, so she quickly learnt how to when she wanted to.”

“Did you say 40 cm thick?” Mike was taking notes.

Jan had given up on the front door and gone around the back. She reappeared with a slight girl in scruffy overalls and holding a hammer in her hand.

“Fran, this is Mike. Can we show him the new palace?”

“Sure. Come on in,” she beamed, opening the door.

It seemed a rather normal interior, but Mike was conscious of its very small scale, with much less spacious rooms that he was used to, and quite low ceilings.

Pete saw him looking up. “Ah the ceilings. Where to begin. Look, our concern is to build only as big as is necessary for comfort and convenience, because that saves a lot of resources, time and effort. Most houses in mainstream society are far too big, and far too expensive. “

“And,” said Jan, “the average Australian house size is increasing so fast, that it has just about doubled in the last 30 years.”

“While the average number of people in it have just about halved. Ridiculous!” Pete added.

“Anyway God, that’s my Godfrey, and I don’t have much money. So what we needed was a nice, ultra cheap little nest. And that’s what we have. Don’t you think it’s gorgeous? Mind you, we’ve only been in for a week, and we still have a lot of work to do, and we haven’t got the decorative stuff organized yet. We’ll have indoor plants wherever we can.”

“You do realize”, said Pete, “the smaller the house, the easier it is to heat. So, less wood to cut.”

“And less cleaning,” said Fran.

“I’m surprised you have a concrete slab put down though, said Mike looking down. I thought you would’ve used timber for flooring.”

“Oh no, that’s not concrete,” said Fran. “It’s earth, rammed and surfaced, and there are little tunnels moulded into it, to take warm air from the fire in winter. Mind you the kitchen and bathroom floor surfaces are split rock set in earth, with cement between the chunks.”

“Mike saw the flooring in the workshop. I told him about the surface treatment.” Then turning to Mike, “See the ceiling beams in the main room? Just small tree trunks. Haven’t been sawn. Look great don’t they? Most of the carpentry is sawn timber though, obviously around the windows and doors. We have densely packed plantations, with seedlings planted close together to make the saplings grow straight up to the light, so we can get poles without any kinks.”

“The sawn timber comes from the mill,” said Fran. “In fact, God and I helped with the milling. That cut the dollar costs down.

“What about the roof?” asked Mike.

“Corrugated iron. The only real dollar and energy costly part. As I mentioned at the workshop, we’re working to the day, when we can do all our roofing tiles as co-operative pottery. But we haven’t got that up and running well yet. I mean we do produce some. But Fran and God had to compromise, given their financial situation. When this roofing needs replacing, tiles will go on.”

“Surely you don’t have enough storage space, it’s so tiny.”

“Oh tonnes … out the back, in the sheds. They cost almost nothing, made of poles old tin and mud walls. Plenty of space there for our crafts too. We’ll add to the house later if we want to.”

“Mind telling me what the house cost?” Mike questioned, pen poised over his pad.

“Just give me a chance to boast,” Fran smiled. “No you guess first.”

“Well it’s difficult to say,” said Mike. “How about I work back from where I come from.”

Jan said, “Where you come from most people simply can’t have a house, because they can’t afford one. Those who can need two incomes and are paying 40% of their total income as house payments, for years. That’s outrageous, and totally ridiculous.”.

“I agree,” said Mike. “I know all about it. I am an expert on the subject.”

“Really, are you in real estate?” asked Fran.

“No, I have a mortgage. A mortgage as big as an elephant.”

“Really. So what are you paying for your house?”

“Well, mine is let’s say much bigger than this one. In fact, it’s probably four times as big. And it’s difficult to sort out the house cost from the land cost of course.”

“That’s another thing you people do all wrong,” said Jan. “You let the market set land prices, and then you’re surprised that no one can afford a block of land.”

“But the market’s the most efficient way of allocating things like investment in housing”…”

Jan jerked into action. “Mike you should not have got me started. The market is the most appallingly inefficient way of meeting human needs! Do you know there are more than one thousand million malnourished people in the world but every year more than six hundred million tons of grain, or more than one third of all the grain harvested in the world, are fed to animals in rich countries. Now do you know why that happens?”

“Well….”

“Precisely because market forces are allowed to determine who gets the grain. It’s far more profitable in the market for the grain to be fed to animals in feedlots to supply meat for rich countries than to sell it to poor and hungry peasants.”

“Well,” said Mike, “You can’t expect that, because grain producers can’t be expected to sell at a loss…”

“But we’re not talking about a loss. Many necessary things could be produced and sold for poor people at very low prices that at a small profit. But no investor ever does that in a market system. They only invest in producing whatever will maximize their profits. That means they totally ignore need. Maybe three billion people need better diets, but that’s totally irrelevant. The food is sold to people who can pay most for it. And that explains the housing situation too. In Australia most low-income people now can never hope to have a house of their own, simply because the market is allowed to determine what type of houses are built. So housing corporations maximize their profits by completely ignoring the little people who would be very happy with a very small, very cheap mud brick house, while they only build too-big, luxurious, expensive mansions. The upper middle class want opulent status symbols and that’s where the building corporations can maximize their profits.”

Then as if suddenly remembering where she was, she said, ”Sorry, sorry, my apologies but you must really be careful not to mention market forces in my presence. Sorry, you were telling us what your house cost”.

“Well, without land to build. Maybe $150,000.”

“Ouch”, said Pete. “$350,000.”

“No I said $150,000.”

“Ah, but you left out the interest on your loan, and tax and inflation. If you get a $150,000 loan, you’ll pay back about $250,000, right? And to have $250,000 to give back to the bank you must earn about $330,000 right, because the taxman wants about a third of each dollar you earn. Then the value of your money is falling all the time because of inflation. I don’t know how to figure that in, but interest and tax alone means to own your house you are having to work to pay out your total pre-tax income from about 8 years full time work.”

Fran piped up. “This one cost us $5,000, and it was built in about six months. Here we are in our house without any debt, and owning every bit of it, one year after deciding to build. That’s not including appliances, just the house.”

“You’re kidding,” said Mike.

“No, but we used lots of scrap. Like most of the carpentry is from recycled timber, and we did most of the work, and we got lots of help from working bees. And Anthony is a builder and he advised us all the way through. We paid him by helping on his sites, and learnt a lot about building from that.”

“OK, so you should add the labour costs to your $5,000,” Mike said.

“I don’t think so,” Fran said slowly. “There was a lot of work, but we enjoyed it. It’s our house and we made it. Do you know what that feels like? And we got exercise. Most of the time we would have chosen to be here building than anywhere else. So I think we should deduct a few thousand dollars for the exercise, leisure and life satisfaction we got. Get it? If you want to add $3,000 to the cost for unpaid labour. I want to take off $3,000 for the satisfaction and other benefits received.”

Pete said, ”That’s important Mike. We go about economic accounting like that, taking in much more than dollar costs and benefits. It makes an enormous difference to the desirability and cost of things. If you just take dollars into account you usually get the wrong impression of the real full costs and benefits.”

“Did you say 8 years? Did you say I was working 8 years full time for my house?”

“About that. And of course you can’t say it’s yours for about 20 years, until you’ve paid the last installment, and until then you have to worry about getting the sack and being unable to keep up the payments, and therefore losing the house.”

“Well I’ll have to think about all that,” said Mike, feeling a little bit angry about being blasted from all directions.

Pete seemed to sense this and said “Hey, we’re late again. Time for afternoon tea.”

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