A chip off the old block

The ‘once majestic clothesline has shrunk and morphed into a feeble, foldaway thing tucked down the blind side of the house’.

It is the foundation of modern Australian suburban culture: the suburban block, or quarter-acre block, to be precise. A parcel of land large enough to accommodate a three-bedroom house with a side driveway, a backyard vegie patch, a chook shed, an incinerator, a compost heap and a Hills hoist – plus outbuildings that included a wash house, a woodshed and a backyard dunny. The quarter-acre block rose in popularity in the post-war era as returning diggers and their families sought the light and space and modernity of living in the suburbs.

There was usually no deck, patio or terrace in those days; the concepts of alfresco dining and “secret gardens” wouldn’t be discovered for decades. Barbecues were for offsite communal eating, perhaps at a footy club “do”. Who would want to eat outside amid the heat and the flies? That was the logic of the day. The only reason why others might sally forth into your backyard was for deliveries – the baker, the butcher and the grocer would usually come round the back and carry boxes direct into the kitchen. (Oddly, the milkman who came in the mornings left bottles at the front door – largely, I think, because there was no need for interaction, cash having been left out the previous night to cover the order.) And a “night man” – look it up, younger readers! – came once a week and carried a night pan hoisted upon his shoulder from the outdoor loo to a waiting night cart in the street.

The front garden was a different space. It set the tone for formal guests, perhaps a visiting vicar or a hopeful suitor, who would be entertained in the household’s front room, the good room. And always in the company of a chaperone if the guest was a suitor. The front garden was a place for growing roses, fuchsias, chrysanthemums and pansies, and a place to photograph formal occasions: the first day of school, first communion, perhaps a picture of a smiling bride preparing to leave home for the church.

The suburban block reigned supreme for 40 post-war years before it was reimagined. Not immediately, but gradually and from every direction. Today a typical suburban block is about half the size, and the house has bulked up to four bedrooms and two bathrooms, with an outdoor eating area.

The wash house is no more, the outdoor dunny is but a curiosity, and the incinerator was long ago consigned to environmental purgatory. The compost heap has survived, but only because it agreed to be rounded up and contained within a plastic lidded barrel. And the once majestic clothesline has shrunk and morphed into a feeble, foldaway thing tucked down the blind side of the house. The tumble dryer killed the clothesline.

The front garden and the back yard have shrunk. Suitors have been catapulted beyond the “good room” by shifting social mores. Vicars have retreated from the custom of visiting members of their flock at home. And the garage has expanded to accommodate two cars – but in reality, it’s also a storage facility. Plus, because the garage has been incorporated within the roofline of the house, it could be argued that the car is effectively regarded as a family member.

All of this illustrates the truth that Australian suburbia is a work in progress, and always has been. It adapts to our changing needs and preferences. And the interesting thing isn’t so much the way things have changed, but how our households and communities project our prevailing values and social behaviour on the world around us.