Living in a caravan may seem minimalistic. It may seem unconventional or even missing creature comforts. But in my experience, it’s the perfect cooking pot for curating a happy loving childhood. Of course, the caravan itself was not the only catalyst, my parents for better or worse, shaped me into who I am today. Looking back, I had hated that my friends at school had nice houses. A flushing toilet, light switches, even a door to their bedroom, what a foreign concept. So far from the world I knew. We had a singular light in the ‘lounge room’ and a tiny black and white television, powered by a battery we would steal from our car. Whilst being in bed I had the perfect view of the tv. Against my parents’ wishes, I knew everything that was happening in Blue Heelers. I may have been five years old, but let me tell you, I was well versed in the M15+ TV show. Despite my father’s best efforts, blocking my view with his broad figure, I would duck and dive around to see, till I had run out of energy and the night would take me away.

Each day was different, no two were the same. Sometimes I would wake and it would be time to go down to the paddock. Idealistically my parents thought, we can grow vegetables, farming isn’t hard, right? My mother being from Sydney, not once grown a vegetable and my father from Melbourne, who knew more of how a computer worked than what fertiliser does. Some may say they were delusional, but I think, inspirational. Changing your whole life, giving away comfortable jobs, a cosy apartment, but mostly, leaving your family behind to chase a dream, that others want but simply lack the courage. My parents did that, they followed an outrageous path.

The choices for what to grow around the region were, sugar cane, pineapples or maybe macadamias if you were feeling adventurous. Of course, my parents being the bold pioneers, or so they thought, grew chillis. Yes chillis. To this day I haven’t questioned them why they chose this specific vegetable as they don’t even eat them. But growing up, I was proud to be a daughter of chilli farmers. Of course there were the few oddities, some zucchinis, maybe a few eggplants and my treasured vegetable garden, the purple kings. To the average person I dare assume they wouldn’t quite know what a purple king is. Never fret, I shall share the passion of this interesting and magical bean. For when I was a child, that’s exactly what I called it. They were magic beans. Before I tell the tale, know that this one, remains one of my favourites.

Starting school, I was already armed with a bountiful amount of knowledge, at least that’s what I thought. I spent a lot of time in earlier years learning about the land, from two city slickers. Truth be told, I’m almost certain they were making it up as they went along but in their strides I followed. My mother was always very patient and eager to bestow her wisdom about cicadas and how king parrots were the devil reincarnate as they ate nearly everything we grew (I don’t share this view). Many days we would prepare for the harvest. We would lay water piping down along the garden beds, sprinkle some fertiliser, dig little holes with our hands and along we went, putting in all the seeds. She taught me all about how you can separate the plants and grow new ones, taught me about constantly weeding, watering and giving love to these plants so they may grow big and strong.

As a side note, after all the knowledge that was bestowed upon me, at seven years old, it was time to pass the wisdom on. Hand in hand with my mother, walking along the main street of town I happened to see a one-legged man. Quite tall, covered in tattoos, leather jacket, a biker if I were to stereotype, and of course my mother being who she is, was cautious. However, being who I was, I had no fear. I walked right up to this man, looked him in the eye, said to him, ‘sir, why are you so grumpy, don’t you know if you water and feed it, it’ll grow back?’. My mother vigorously grabbed my arm, profusely apologised, and then, there was an awkward silence. The man burst out in laughter and said it was quite alright. His frown was now turned upside down.

Eventually it was my turn to put all I had learnt into practise (after all, I was spouting my knowledge as if it were gospel). It was time to grow my magic beans and why yes, this is a true story, but when I say magic beans, I am referring to Purple King beans. These bizarre and wonderful beans grow to be a deep purple and the joy of them, the magic, is that when you cook them, they turn green when they are done. As a child, it was simply magic and to this day, they will always be, magic beans. I tended to my little patch of magic beans, grew them, harvested them, packed them and then they were ready to be sent to restaurants.

As my parents wanted me to learn, I was fortunate to receive a lot of the profit from my magic beans. With my pockets lined with a couple of two-dollar coins, a few one-dollar coins and a cheeky five dollar note I headed to the corner store where we would pick up the mail and say hello to some locals. There I would pick 20 ghost drop lollies for five cents each, what a bargain! I would pick out some Allen’s snakes, a few red frogs, some sour drops, you name it, I was buying at least one of everything, all placed in a white paper bag that I proudly carried to school. As a young child, I wasn’t ever taught about being greedy or selfish, the lollies weren’t for only me. I would go to school, head to class and share them with everyone, even the stinky kids I didn’t like too much. It wasn’t for a need of fitting in or because I felt I had to, but because I wanted to.

Looking back, I didn’t realise all the lessons I had been taught by growing magic beans. I was oblivious to the kindness my parents showed me. Please never confuse what I write, I know how kind and loving my parents have always been, but the lessons they bestowed upon me, are unmatched. I will dare say it, I think they taught me well. Don’t let them know for their egos are already huge.

One day everything changed.

My grandmother, a beautiful old lady, never raised her voice, never showed any hate, was kind, thoughtful, generous and graceful, though through unforeseen circumstances, would now come and live with us. You see, my papa (grandfather) had a stroke, and my uncle couldn’t look after him so, my mother whisked them all the way from Sydney to Bundaberg. A small town with a few too many McDonalds I’ll be honest, but lovely beaches, kind people, but did I mention very small and very different from Sydney. We had no choice, there was zero chance of grandma living in the caravan. It was small, a window that didn’t work, only two beds so I would have to share my single bed as well as the daunting compost toilet. This woman was elegant and sophisticated and the caravan, well it wasn’t.

We moved to Moore Park, a beachside town, into a townhouse where we had doors. Actual doors to each room! What a novelty I thought at ten years old. I had my own bathroom, a real shower. Did we just become millionaires? So, I thought at least. I was blown away by all the fancy things in life. Each day I woke up, went to school, came home and didn’t really do much. The afternoons would drag on. Life had changed. No longer were we down the paddock, mumma teaching me all kinds of random facts that weren’t useful but interesting. No longer was I following Patch and Blackie, our two beautiful dogs who made for great horses when I was four.

We slowly began building our new home. Poured the concrete, put up the beams, screwed the corrugated iron to the outside and began putting up the dry wall. It was taking shape. It didn’t stop me from visiting the caravan. I would often go down, hang out thinking of when I was younger. Always warned of snakes, be careful, wear shoes but as a rebellious child, shoes were for the weak and by gosh I was the toughest bare foot soldier in these regions. There’s a tale here though. One day as I was pulling a little trolley through the house stacked almost as tall as I was (not that I was very tall), it toppled. All the scrap pieces of metal fell onto my foot and being who I was, my bare foot copped it. Flying from my foot was my big toenail, a moment silence, rest in pepperoni I thought. It didn’t teach me to wear shoes, however, there was perhaps more caution.

As time went on, the house was starting to look like some kind of structure. It didn’t have doors, it didn’t have light switches that worked, it didn’t even have a front door, but it did have a flushing toilet. My family had advanced to ancient Roman times and if that moment were to happen today, be sure I’d probably take 10 photos and post it online somewhere as it was a monumental day in my life. Unfortunately, we were no longer able to stay (not by our choice) in our very rich millionaire townhouse (of course it was not this fancy) and abruptly moved into our unfinished house. Grandma and all. Even though life had drastically changed, it was all very exciting, and I did not fear the unknown.

If anything, I was glad to be back home, amongst the trees, helping papi collect firewood for the donkey, a prehistoric hot water system where you burn timber to create hot water. We would trek through the bush, hunting the perfect sticks, me asking so many questions I’m sure he would be glad to get back to the house so mumma would be able to take over babysitting. Patch and Blackie always in tow. Might I add, we didn’t have a proper kitchen, nothing of the sort. The house was just a shell. Papi would cook outside on a very broken-down woodstove. If you poked it hard enough, the whole thing would probably fall apart but it never hindered the quality of food that man produced. If you ever have the delight to have a home cooked meal by him, know you’re in for a treat. I’m sure every person believes their parents make the best home cooked meals in the world, but I’ll wager, he’ll give you a run for your money.

Even though we no longer were in the caravan or in the townhouse, it didn’t change the dedication and love my parents had for me. It didn’t matter where we were. My mumma would always be there teaching me all kinds of interesting facts about wildlife, showing me how beautiful the simple things in life are, sharing her love of art. My father, tolerating my existence, taking me on trips to the dam, walking to the creek, exploring the wood piles. Grandma, the lovely lady she was, would let me put her hair up in ponytails, butterfly clips everywhere and I hate to admit it, let me cheat when we played cards. I always had my best friends, I never needed an abundance of toys, a room with paint on the walls, a door or electricity, everything I needed was right there with my family.

Now that I am an adult, I have gone through many changes and experienced many things. Right before I turned 18, I moved to Brisbane. I went to university for the first time, lived in a studio apartment and was in a loving relationship with my high school sweetheart. I would go out for coffees, travel through Brisbane on the bustling trains, shops galore and sometimes visit the Gold Coast theme parks. To some, this may seem like the dream, this is what you want but as days went by, weeks, leading to months I was miserable. My heart was broken, I missed my parents so much. I missed my home so much. Everything around me was meaningless.

I would happily trade living in the city in a comfy place to be at home doing jigsaw puzzles with my parents where my father tries the same piece five times in the same spot and mumma hoards the last piece. Give me the mozzies, the cold and the threat of a snake pulling up a chair at the dinner table. With so many cobwebs on the roof we may as well be a Halloween shop. All these kooky features, this is what life is about. What my parents created wasn’t just a home but a pocket of paradise where no matter what happens, I’ll always feel loved, cared for, respected, cherished and completely free.