To a little kid like you, it was the best time of the year.

It was ridiculously hot, even for Australia. There was never a cloud in the bright blue sky. Flowers grew abundantly and your dad liked to take you to pick them. He would wear what he called his “sun hat,” but looked a lot like the hats that the cowboys in westerns would wear. You both would get a good tan, and the freckles on your face would pop out nicely. The grass was bright green and grew at a monstrous rate; it seemed like your dad was always out mowing the lawn.

You would spend a good amount of your time in his shop. It was sort of like a man cave, but it was a big metal building, where he kept his two motorcycles and an old truck he swears he’s saving for when you turn sixteen. There’s toolboxes and old road signs, neon lights taken from run-down businesses, a TV mounted on one of the walls, and the smell of a man’s hard work. To you, this is quintessential childhood. This is who your father is.

When he’s home, of course. He tends to be out filming or doing interviews or press tours. During the summer, however, since you are out of school, he tries to either be home more or take you around with him.

Your dad is mowing the lawn. There are the loud, mechanical noises of the mower, the giant metal fan built into the top of one of the shop’s walls, and the box fan plugged into an extension cord, facing you. You are asleep on one of the wooden benches your father crafted before you were born. The mosquitos do not bother you. The sliding metal door stays open so that your dad can keep an eye on you. A football (soccer) game plays on the television. The world is at peace.

Hugh decides to take a break between mowing the lawn and trimming the weeds growing around the edges of the buildings. He turns the machine off and rolls it back to the shop, not bothering to be too quiet as he puts it away. He takes his hat off and wipes the sweat from his face with his shirt.

“Hey, kiddo.” He places a hand on your soft arm and gives you a gentle shake.