Legging it

Growing up in my family was unusual; hindsight has made that clear. But for my siblings and me, living in an old house with a triple amputee dad was completely normal. Dad was an impressive man in many ways. At just 18 years old, he lost his left arm and both lower legs in an horrific accident. He was intelligent, a creative thinker, but he could be a brute and often seemed to have trouble navigating social queues. Hindsight makes me think it was likely he was on the autism spectrum which worked in his favour to rise above his disability (or handicap, the term he preferred).

Mum on the other hand was diminutive at only 5’11” and quietly spoken. She loved plants and gardening, and very rarely swore, although I do tend to think her two teenage daughters were a bad influence on that last one.

One of the normal things for us as kids was Dad’s spare legs. Instead of changing shoes, Dad changed his legs … sometimes this also applied to changing trousers. He’d get home from the office, take of his suit trousered legs and put on his work trousered legs. Think about it for sec! He only had one arm and the process of taking of shoes, socks and trousers was a lengthy process, so this made perfect sense.

I remember when in grade six, I told the class my dad was a spider because he had eight legs. The teacher thought this hilarious … not so much my peers. Then in year seven my English teacher joked Dad didn’t play cricket because he was out on his stumps before he even started. She and I burst out laughing. The other kids were shocked and my bestie at the time told me she thought it was disgusting. She didn’t understand that I’d grown up with this sense of humour. Sometimes it is warranted. It helps you get past some of the difficulties.

Now, about the house! My grandfather built it in 1911. It was quite large, some thought it impressive, but living in it was not really a privilege. I loved it, but the drawbacks included forever working on maintenance even as kids. I remember in the middle of the night hearing footsteps creeping up the bare floorboards of the passage outside my room – which adult me knows was just the hot water pipes going from the water heater at the back of the house, up to the ensuite in Mum and Dad’s bedroom at the front. There were loud banging noises in the ceiling - possums. And scratching in the wall cavities an under the house – probably rats. And the shifting basalt plains of our region meant in the middle of the night as the cooling earth moved, large chunks of plaster would fall from the walls with a loud crash.

Some years ago, I was sitting with Mum by the open fire late one afternoon just chatting. No one else was home and everything was relatively quiet. Suddenly there was a huge noise from the front of the house. It wasn’t a possum or rumbling pipes. It didn’t sound like falling plaster. We just stared at each other startled.

You know those horror movies where you yell at the screen “don’t go in there; get out of the house now” … Those words were going through my head even as I said to Mum that we should check it out.

Mum and I stood outside the closed bedroom door at the front of the house, bundled together, grabbing each other’s arm. I opened the door slowly. It didn’t creak because Dad was pretty much on top of maintaining the hinges. There was nothing in the bedroom and we both looked at the front window, making sure it was shut, and bolted. The bathroom ensuite door was open and there was nothing in there. That left the wardrobe, its door closed.

We shuffled together to the wardrobe. There weren’t any more sounds, but we were at the point of hysteria when we slowly slid the door open … and behind the hanging clothes … was a pair of feet sticking out and we both screamed “FUCK” …

even though we BOTH KNEW it was just a pair of Dad’s spare legs.