Well here I am in Lockdown number six,
All the jobs are done, nothing else to fix.
I’ll order up an extra case of red,
And stay another hour in bed.
Soil’s too soggy to dig or feed,
And unless it’s fine I can’t weed.
Writing and painting - I can do that,
And yell at the telly, or talk to the cat!
No visitors allowed is Daniel’s plea.
Without technology, where would I be?
My hair is growing out of control -
Might have to get out the mixing bowl.
Let’s hope the idiots stay inside
And to the rules they do abide.
​
Betty Milligan
Creative Writing 2021

I watched the children enjoying themselves at the newly opened Splash Park and it brought a smile to my face to see the brand new colourful equipment, and the clean, crystal clear water. It triggered a memory of the fun times we had all through the summer, down at our local pool. Our swimming pool was a far cry from the pristine pool and splash park the kids enjoy today.

I am not sure when it was actually built but it was one of the earliest and biggest ones, around, with a length of 44 yards and 22 yards in width. The sides were brick and the bottom was gravel and the shallow end had a rusty old pipe running along the bricks as a kick bar to aid children and non swimmers. The water came in from the lake situated above the pool and it certainly wasn’t crystal clear and there was no way we could see the bottom which made diving for things a challenge.

The biggest challenge, however was keeping clear of the leeches. It meant we had to keep moving while we were in the water otherwise we’d find the black bloodsuckers hanging from our leg, which meant splashing vigorously until it dropped off. The young boys would catch them and pass the time turning them inside out on sticks and lining them up in the sun.

Just before the ladder halfway down the length of the pool there was a slide which provided hours of fun, and the kids came up with all sorts of ways to come down it into the water. I can’t remember any accidents and I must point out that there was no adult supervision other than a parent or two that may have accompanied their child or came for a swim themselves. Warm weekends meant the pool was enjoyed by many of the locals.

Each summer Chiltern hosted a carnival attracting swimmers from visiting towns. It was a big affair and the kiosk was opened to provide drinks and ice creams etc. There were events such as breast stroke, backstroke, butterfly and relays etc., but the most popular to watch were the diving events and the skill demonstrated on that springboard.

Besides the big annual event the town held its own night carnival for the locals and the pool was lit up by green metal lights strung across the water. I competed in some of the events and am proud to confess to winning places in events including the diving. But the most exciting prize was the duck. The final event open to all was the Duck Hunt where everyone lined up around the pool and someone released a duck in the middle and everyone jumped in to try to catch the poor scared duck which swam in all directions. I caught it once (only because it swam towards me) which meant I got to keep it. Although father rigged up a pen to keep it overnight it was gone by morning and I could only hope it wasn’t a fox’s breakfast.

I am pleased to report that there were no drownings or diseases eventuating from our times in the pool except for the odd earache. The only precaution taken was the pool was drained and cleaned during the season.

​Betty Milligan

​Hot sunny days, balmy nights,
BBQ's and Christmas lights,
Sweaty armpits, Mozzie bites,
Frogs croaking, sleepless nights.
Blow flies buzzing all day long,
Cicadas sing their mating song.
Gardens wilt in searing heat,
Burning soles on naked feet.
Days get hotter by degrees,
Heightened by a lack of breeze.
Paddocks bare, no grass to eat,
Water low and dams deplete.
Livestock standing, lean and weak,
Snakes sunbaking by the creek.
Clouds are gathering in the sky,
Dogs are restless where they lie.
Lightening flashes everywhere,
Scent of moisture in the air.
Raindrops fall, light at first,
Heaven sent to quell a thirst.
Heavy now on rooftops pound,
Welcome water on thirsty ground.
But showers sent are far too brief –
Humid weather gives no relief.
Still, Summer marches on its way,
Weaker with each passing day.
 
Searing heat has been upstaged,
Autumn brings a brand-new page.
Colours of yellow, red and gold,
Fresh new season begins to unfold.
Showers fall on arid ground,
Green grass sprouting in the brown.
Thirsty earth drinks in the rain,
Flora and fauna thrive again.
Snakes slink into hibernation,
Fireman rest with quiet elation.
Milder days are on the menu,
Outdoors is the chosen venue.
Jackets now common attire,
Evening drinks around a fire.
Leaves fall in a scattered mess,
Trees left in a state of undress.
Dewy dampness in the air,
Winter’s chill lurks out there.
Autumn can’t keep it at bay,
Accepts defeat and slips away.
 
An eerie wind howls all around,
Indoors sheltered safe and sound.
Winter woollies warm and snug,
Hot chocolate and a cosy rug.
On the roof, the pelting rain
Running down the windowpane.
Out of bed on a chilly morn,
Jack Frost spread across the lawn.
Lace-like threads on spiderwebs,
Shrubs and trees dressed like debs.
Crunch of grass from booted feet,
Eggs and bacon, winter’s treat.
Frosts all gone, skies are blue,
Clouds pass and sun shines through.
Then Winter shows its cruel deceit,
Sending forth its hail and sleet.
So, time to snuggle in a cosy bed,
To read the books we haven’t read.

Soon there will be much longer days,
The seasons in a brand-new phase.
Milder days soothe winter’s sting,
Bringing forth more pleasant things.
Soon tiny buds burst into flower,
Responding to a passing shower.
Warm sun sends its golden rays,
Clearing away the dismal days.
Shoots appear on naked trees,
Grasses sway in a gentle breeze.
Chirping birds in feathered vests
Busily building brand new nests.
Joggers on their morning run,
Children outside having fun.
Warm clothes shed for light attire,
Blooming gardens to admire.
Neighbours outside busily mowing,
Veggie patch, now right for sowing.
Buzzing bees for nectar search,
Magpies warble from their perch.
Oh, what joy to welcome Spring
And the new life it is bound to bring.
 
Betty Milligan,
Published in ‘Benalla Poet’s Corner’ in the Benalla Ensign, Wednesday November 11, 2020

As a young girl of seventeen I was employed by the Department of Agriculture at the Rutherglen Research Station, now known as Rutherglen Research Institute. I began as the junior typist, but was the only person who was an accomplished shorthand typiste and after the senior girl left to be married I stepped up and another junior was hired. There were twenty field officers and about the same number of farmhands employed and besides Aggie (or Aunt as she was effectionately known) the cleaner, the two office girls and laboratory assistant were the only females. We were treated with respect by all, but a sense of humour was an important qualification and if you survived the first two weeks you were ok.

Duties varied from switchboard operator to waitressing on the all important Field Days. 

Until the new offices were built, Jenny and I shared an office with the clerk.  It was a bit cramped especially with the switchboard, which constantly interrupted typing and other work, just behind my desk. There were two external lines and four party lines as well as the individual office phones. There was an extra farm phone on the wall outside the office which was answered mostly by us unless there was another officer nearby. If a call came in for one of the men and they didn’t answer, we had a loudspeaker system to help locate them (we had a bit of fun with this when the boss was away).

All typing was done on Remington typewriters and the mail was taken into town each day by Roy, our mailman, who also collected mail and supplies required from town.

Whenever the Manager needed a letter typed he would take advantage of my shorthand skills, dictate it and I would then have to type it up, get it signed and into the mailbag for Roy to take to town that day.
​
There were always pages of reports to be typed up, some of them requiring many copies which meant typing them onto wax stencil sheets and churning them out on the Roneo copier. This entailed wrapping the completed stencil around an ink filled roller and turning the handle, flicking it at the end to send the copies out. On completion the messy stencil was discarded, then the same process was used for the rest of the pages. Accuracy was paramount.

I spent two weeks at Head Office at Treasury Gardens to learn the library system, and to further add to my duties I was in charge of stores, requisitioning for stationery and office supplies.

Moving into the new offices was exciting, with plenty of space and a separate reception area. We even formed a staff Social Club, but that’s another story entirely.
​

     During the 80s I lived at Thoona with my four young sons, and as I didn’t have a car a son of a friend gave me his on loan. It was an HD Holden and I called it Harriet. 
     Harriet served us well until a house became vacant in town.  I returned her to her owner and invested in a sturdy used car on which my youngest son bestowed the name Stanley. This time it was a Ford XR Falcon with one original owner and so was well looked after.  It was part of the family for a few years  One day after I’d finished my shopping at SSW (now Coles) I left Stanley in the supermarket car park on the butcher’s side and nicked up the street for an item or two. When I returned I was surprised to see a crowd had gathered. My son, who worked at SSW at the time, approached me.  He told me that my car had been damaged along with three others. Apparently a gentleman in his nineties pulling out of a bay had hit the accelerator instead of the brake, ploughing through three vehicles. One was brand new!  ‘But, mum,’ my son said proudly, 'Stanley stopped him hitting any more. He came to a sudden stop once he hit solid old Stanley.’
     There was damage to the side, but fortunately I was able to drive home (it was a different story for the other three drivers). So, after a bit of panel beating and a paint touch up, Stanley was back on the road looking better than before.
 
     Now, my two eldest sons were real car enthusiasts and members of the Chrysler Club, and they spotted a car in their travels that they thought would be great for me. They arranged the sale of our dear old Stanley and I became the owner of a CL Chrysler. Wow! What comfort! It was like driving in my lounge chair, tape deck, a heater that really worked and cloth seats instead of the usual cold vinyl. I didn’t give this one a name, but I think it should’ve been called ‘The Guzzler’ because it had a mighty thirst for petrol.
     Eventually I decided to look around for a smaller, more economic car and on one of my trips to Chiltern to see my mum, dropped in on my two bachelor uncles. They were discussing my Chrysler.  Dave, the younger, was really impressed.  When I mentioned I was looking to swap it for a smaller car that wasn’t so heavy on the juice, he offered to buy it. I agreed that as soon as I found a replacement he could have it.
 
      Not long after that visit I received a call from Uncle Paddy, the older, with instructions to meet him at the Benalla train station. As he was a man of few words I was given no reason. He’d booked into the Top of the Town motel with instructions to pick him up next day. This I did and he told me to take him to the Ford dealer, where he told me to wait in the car, as he was going to get me a car. Ignoring my protestations, he walked to the office  and after some time he was back in the car ordering me to drive him to the bank.
      This time I was in the position to voice loudly my protests. He just grinned and said he had plenty of money and he was "buying me a little bastard".
      I accompanied him to the office, dumbfounded, as papers were signed, cheque passed over and told there would be a brand new red Ford Festiva arriving within two weeks.
 
    To cut this story short, I had Marty Burke print up‘The Little Bastard’ and place it on the tailgate, then took myself off to Chiltern to take uncle Paddy for a drive as promised. He was immensely amused with the name, I might add.
    That little car took me round the Great Ocean Road, having its first service in Warrnambool, and survived the floods in Benalla two months later.
     Unfortunately dear uncle Paddy (full name Ernest Edward Patrick Coyle) passed away a few months later at age 81. 'The little B' remained in the family for 16 years before joining a pizza business in Melbourne.  Maybe it's still there, busy delivering pizzas. 
 
Betty Milligan
July 2020

I grew up in the small country town of Chiltern in the 50s when, except for the movies and sport such as netball and footy, there wasn't all that much to do on weekends or school holidays. We lived out of town a bit so we invented our own escapades for amusement such as the one I am about to relate.

The tone in my mother’s voice was a mixture of panic and frustration as she called to me from the gate. ‘You can’t take the horse and cart out by yourself. You don’t know how to yoke it properly. Wait ‘til your father comes home!’

I brought Dolly up through the gates and harnessed her, ignoring my mother’s pleas. I had assured her there was nothing to worry about as I had watched my father so many times prepare the horse and cart for our trips to get wood. I was confident I could do it too, and besides my friends were watching and that made me all the more cocky. My mother’s brow was creased with worry as she stood by wringing her hands. In desperation she threatened to tell my father when he got home from work.

After putting the harness into place and ducking beneath her belly to fasten the under strap I backed Dolly in between the shafts. I slipped the poles into the loops climbed into the cart and directed the girls to do the same. A gentle slap of the reins onto Dolly’s rump signalled her to move forward towards the gate. Once out onto the road I clicked my tongue, as I had heard dad do so many times, and the big mare broke into a trot that caused my friends to giggle with excitement.

At the time I gave no thought to the concern I had caused my poor mother. I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about anyway. But at least she must have been relieved to see that the horse was still between the shafts as we disappeared out of sight.

We trotted along the bitumen and turned off onto the dirt track that led through the forest. The track wound in and out of the big iron-barks and sometimes we had to duck our heads to miss the overhanging branches. Occasionally I had to slow Dolly down to a walk as the track got a bit narrow and there were a few deserted mine shafts close by.  Eventually we reached a clearing near the mullock heaps where I was able to turn the cart around and head for home.

Although our little trip was only a short one, it was a great way to start the school holidays and a big adventure for the four of us. After all there wasn’t a lot to do in a small town, and it was more exciting than a bike ride. We laughed as we were jolted about by the movement of the cart and giggled when Dolly decided to lift her tail and make rude noises out her rear end .

When we turned into the home gate I saw my mother still standing where she had been when we left, relief evident on her face as we all climbed down safely from the cart.

My father was told of the deed I had done.  Instead of the scolding I expected, he was full of praise for what I had learned just by watching him. I felt as proud as a peacock.

It was not until years later after I had children of my own that I realised the full extent of the worry I had caused my mother. I was only twelve years old and in charge of a draft horse and cart. My poor mother would have felt responsible for the three other girls, and when we headed off towards the bush, the mine shafts would have been only one of the concerns filling her head as she stood waiting for our return.


Betty Milligan
June 2020

​​It was a sunny autumn day as I walked beside the lake,
The exercise area was empty due to the corona virus outbreak.
Red and white striped tape issued a warning, that using it is banned.
All restrictions put in place are much the same across the lands.
This curse called corona, or COVID 19 to use its scientific name
Has spread its invisible tentacles as it plays its lethal game.
Few  now  walk  the  streets  without  some  justification,
As  everyone  must  do  their  bit  to  stop  this  infestation.
We must practise social distancing and be aware of good hygiene
Sanitizing or washing hands with soap and water is a safe routine.
For those in nonessential jobs we must stay home in isolation,
But we can all help each other make the most of this situation.
And besides, think of all those nuisance jobs that can be done.
Or get yourself a dose of natural vitamin D, by relaxing in the sun.
Flying solo can get difficult for those who are living home alone,
But there is Skype, Face time, Zoom and of course the telephone.
Now that we are almost through the tunnel, there is light ahead,
The fear is gradually fading and being replaced with hope instead.
So, as I leave the lake behind me and my home is within my sight
I believe we’ll have our freedom and the world will win the fight.
And all the tapes will be removed as we reclaim our rightful space.
So once again together we can mix and mingle,... and embrace.
 
 
Betty Milligan

​Sometimes when I’ve had a bit too much bubbly to drink
I climb upon my soap box and don’t bother to stop and think.
So if a topic arises that I am very passionate about
I open up my mouth and my opinions come flying out.
And so it happened one New Year’s eve not long ago
I’d had my fill of bubbly and my face was all aglow.
With family and friends I chatted, confident and bold.
Then the environmental topic began slowly to unfold.
Conversation led to the garbage that we all accumulate.
I drained my glass of bubbly, could feel myself inflate,
Then climbed on my soap box and pulled out all the stops.
And vented my frustration regarding all those landfill shops.

‘Damage to the ozone layer, talk of global warming.
Reduce our carbon footprint is the constant warning.
Everyone can lend a hand in reducing the pollution.
So let’s all take one small step to find a small solution.
Perhaps a little push towards some regulation
On all the landfill shops spread across our nation?
I mean all those discount shops, bargain stores and such
Stocked with cheap items that doesn’t cost you much.
There’s at least one in every town across our land,
Selling toxic items that probably should be banned!
Have you noticed that plastic odour as you hurry by?
It takes away your breath and fumes get in your eyes.
Toys, nicknacks, and plastic merchandise galore.
Imported in containers and landing on our shores.
Garbage that ends in landfill just because it’s cheap.
Useful for a week or two then tossed onto the heap.’

I eventually took a break and refilled my empty glass
But can’t remember the results that later came to pass.
Except when farewells were said amid the jibes and hooting.
(They’d definitely watch the news on any drive-by shooting!)
My goodness what did I say to give them that idea?
I guess my thoughts on landfill shops was intensely clear!

Betty Milligan
​March 2020

‘Fiesta of Festivities’ was the topic for the Benalla Festival's Writing Competition in 2019.  Betty's entry 'The Challenge' was a Highly Commended winner in the Open Section.

“The Challenge”
 
It takes country folk to organise a family day of fun
A day of skill and challenges, something for everyone.
Molyullah Easter Sports is a fine example of tradition
Some say it even beats going Easter Monday fishin’.
We always took the kids there in the years gone past
Now my memory takes me back to when I went there last.
I had a mate who always won the annual Ladies’ Race
She could run like a hare, no girl could match her pace.
 
Well, we got to talking, she and I, and I told her I could run
How I was champ on hard turf, and of the trophies I had won.
Then the challenge was struck, to meet at the next sports
I fronted up appropriately, clad in shirt, sneakers and shorts.
Bought a ticket at the gate and hoped it was the lucky one
Took a quick look at the plant stall, ate hot chips on the run.
Just missed the gumboot throwing but I recognized the victor,
If it was a betting event, then for sure I would’ve picked her.
 
Just then there was a call out for entries in the Ladies’ Race
To report to the track and get ready to take their place.
I walked up to the starting point, eyeing off the opposition.
Wished the best to my mate and took up my position.
A sideways glance at all the girls that stood behind the line
Told me without a doubt that this Ladies’ Race was mine.
The starter raised his gun, “get set”, and a resounding crack.
I took a mighty leap forward… then went down like a sack!
 
As I sat up, dazed and mad, my hands upon my face,
The remaining horde went past me, picking up the pace.
Not physically hurt, but deflated, with my wounded pride
I walked from the track trying my best to look dignified.
My mate approached, accompanied by the biggest grin,
And looking naturally chuffed with her expected win!
My excuse was that my big head was over the finish line,
my legs had tried to catch up, but they got left behind.
 
I put the race behind me to have a crack at the spinning wheel,
Winning one of the prizes there sounded like a better deal.
But after numerous spins and parting with my bucks
My pocket was nearly empty – I was devoid of luck.
I watched the three-legged race as one pair hit the ground
But I clearly couldn’t stay upright, even with my legs unbound!
Watched the egg throwing competition and found it entertaining.
The young ones showed some skill, especially those remaining.
 
I was feeling hot and dusty, it was time for tea and cake
Found a seat to sit on and caught up with my grinning mate.
We laughed about the Ladies’ Race that I had not completed
Decided that next year at Molyullah I wouldn’t be defeated.
Lost my money on the spinning wheel, the raffle passed me by,
The lucky gate ticket wasn’t mine, missed a plant I wanted to buy.
But don’t you dare let any of this negativity fool ya
For next year I hope to see you out at Molyullah.
 
Betty Milligan
 

From the beginning particles of creativity, determination along with pigheadedness, stubbornness and a sense of humour are a few of the bits that formed the beginning and inner part of the mould.  These were possibly passed down from my Irish and Scottish forbears.  After I was born my parents between them carefully took the shape and continued working on it, adding honesty, respect, punctuality and discipline and then polished the mould with love and compassion.

My maternal grandmother also had a hand in the shaping by adding humility, understanding and awareness and instilled a tiny touch of fear.  As I grew and ventured off to school the nuns, my teachers, took the mould in hand and added more knowledge and discipline and of course the love and fear of God.  One nun in particular found hidden below the surface, particles of dance, art and writing and nurtured them until they became visible and ready to be polished.  I will be forever grateful to her for her firmness, encouragement and valuable help in all manner of things.

Eventually I made my way out into the wider world and the shape of me began to change slightly as chips and cracks appeared in the surface.  These were caused by frustration, doubt and lack of confidence.

But fortunately as the years rolled by things changed.  With new experiences and influences by the diverse people and situations I have come into contact with along life’s rocky road, cracks and chips have been repaired.  Filled with pieces of support and encouragement, then sanded down with confidence and finally polished with fresh knowledge.

Although the shape of me may have altered slightly and will possibly go on changing in a small way,  the basic mould or shape is there, as solid and secure as it was always meant to be from the beginning.
 
​
Betty Milligan,
May 2018

When I was a little girl and lived just up the track
In a small weatherboard cottage with gum trees out the back.
It was about a mile from town so it wasn't all that far,
And I had to walk or ride my bike, 'cos we didn't have a car.
Our lifestyle was very simple, but we were never poor
Tho it may have seemed that way because of the clothes I wore!
We didn't have electricity, but the  house and land were ours
Dad had a vegie garden, a horse and several cows
And pigs he reared for pork, and the bacon was a treat.
One new dress for 'going out' was purchased every year
And of course, a winter coat, before Jack Frost appeared.
Otherwise my clothes were few, mended, darned and patched,
But clean and pressed - and they nearly always matched.
I always recall what grandma said if I should dare complain.
She told me more than once, now it's etched into my brain.
"Keep your hair clean and brush it until it shines,
Tie it up with a pretty ribbon and you will look just fine.
Polish up your shoes and make sure they're very clean
Then nobody will ever notice what's worn in between."
My dad he mended all my shoes and replaced worn soles,
Toe caps and heel caps and the leather covered holes.
And woe betide me if shoes came off with laces still untied!
He'd always check the state of them, in case by chance I lied.
Although I loved my best dress, I wish I had one more
Maybe just to add a little change to the clothes I wore.
To school I wore a navy tunic with pleats so hard to press,
While in the summer month, a boring navy dress.
Eventually the nuns at school taught me how to sew,
How to use a pattern and other things to know.
So I made myself a garment I wore with pride and joy -
It was a vest and slacks, all made of corduroy.
When finally I left school and gained my independence
And with new experience boosted up my confidence.
I'd check out all the stores and clothing out on show
Then I'd get on my machine, and sew and sew and sew.
Very soon my wardrobe was filled up to capacity
And the clothes that I wore added class to my vivacity!
Now, before going out, I check that my hair and shoes are clean
But I always get to choose what's worn in between,
Whether they are conservative, or maybe even daring
I am always comfortable in the clothes that I am wearing.


Betty Milligan
​April 2018

Whilst still living at home my son Jason bought himself a dog, a Doberman pup he named Zack.  Zack was cute and loveable with huge paws that he eventually grew into.  Not long after acquiring his pup, Jason’s work was relocated to Albury where he rented a unit that didn’t allow for dogs.  For a time Zack became my responsibility and we became mates.
​
Well, I had a nice garden and worked hard to keep it that way.  I soon found that this was to be a real challenge.  Zack grew rapidly and had little respect for garden beds.  His huge paws caused havoc as he ploughed through my precious plants.  In spite of that, we became good friends and enjoyed many walks around the lake.  I even took him along to obedience classes, no easy task.

To be sure, Zack loved company and hated being left alone for very long.  This became painfully obvious whenever I left him to do my grocery shopping.  The first time it happened I was to come home to find the destruction of my stock of toilet rolls.  After that it was outside with him, but that didn’t stop him.  Whenever I left  him for too long I would come home to find him sitting waiting for me with a doleful expression.  A quick glance around discovered my recently purchased water lily out of the pond, in the middle of the lawn, the pot beside it.  This happened on more than one occasion. 

Then one day I purchased a special plant from the Market.  On returning home Zack met me at the side gate, happily plodding along beside me and watching as I carefully placed the pot in a ‘safe’ place until I was ready to plant it.  I then picked up the water lily from the lawn and placed it in the fish pond, reprimanding him severely once again.  I was amazed that the tough little water lily actually survived.

The final straw and the thing that really tested the friendship was that, on returning home after my weekly grocery shopping, I found Zack sitting by the back door, head on one side, looking up at me with those sad eyes.  I immediately went to the pond, but eureka!  The lily was still in the pond.  I was about to give him a rewarding pat when, lo and behold, there on the path was my precious plant, completely out of the pot.  I was livid.

Zack survived, but needless to say our friendship was hanging by a very thin thread.  Fortunately, before that friendship was completely severed, Jason reclaimed him.  My garden thrived once more, as did my mateship with Zack.  Oh, and the water lily has also survived to this day and has rewarded me with many a bloom.  But sadly, Zack has since passed on.
 
Betty Milligan,
March 2018

His name was Patrick Michael Coyle.  Everyone called him Paddy, but to me he was Grand pop.  I remember his snowy, white hair and his unseeing light blue eyes.  He sat in his armchair by the hearth with his walking stick within reach and his old dog, Bluey, at his feet.  Grand pop was in his eighties but he still had his sense of humour and retained his gentle nature.

My cousin Gladys was raised by our grandparents and I spent many a day and night with them.  It was on one of these nights, when Gladys and I were talking and laughing loudly in the bed we shared that Grandpop, who was trying to sleep, called for us to be quiet.  He said that we sounded like a pair of jackasses.  Well, this only made the situation worse because we both launched into kookaburra laughs.  Next thing we heard a thump and a shuffle and Grand pop appeared at our door and hurled his slipper in our direction.  It amazed us that it actually landed on the bed since it was fairly dark and he was blind.  I guess we were pretty impressed with his effort because we showed some respect and our loud laughter was reduced to quiet giggles until we eventually went off to sleep. 

Another evening, we were all sitting out on the verandah listening to the frogs in the deep drain that ran behind the property when Grand pop told us that the frogs sold wine.  He said if we were quiet and listened we would hear them calling ‘Plonk, two-bob a bottle, plonk, two-bob a bottle!’  Se we did, and yes, that is just what it sounded like.

Often when Grandma sent us to the shops for supplies Grand pop called us over and gave us a coin to spend.  He would take out his coin bag with the ring on top and produce what we would tell him was only a penny.  He would tell us that he may be blind but he could tell the difference between a penny and a two-bob piece and if we didn’t clear off it would be the last coin we’d ever get.  I think he really enjoyed playing that little game at testing us, as sometimes it would be a shilling and we would tell him it was only a halfpenny, but of course he knew all along what it was.

Grandma told us that in their younger days, when they lived on the old Magenta Road in Chiltern, Grand pop would meet up with his mate, Ted Milligan (who incidentally was my paternal grandfather) and they would walk down to the town and share a few pints with their mates at one of the local pubs.   Apparently the wives had an arrangement with the publican and local policeman that if their husbands had  imbibed a few too many they were to be locked up in the cell for the night.  This was for their own protection and to ensure that they arrived home safely to their respective families.  You see, the bushland along the Magenta Road was an old gold-mining area and peppered with mine shafts, some of them close to the edge of he road.  It was a bit risky for two drunks staggering along there in the dark.

Sadly, lives change and it was a sad time when Grand pop fell ill.  When the priest was called we knew that he was going to die.  He passed away at the age of eighty-eight in his own bed at home.  It was a sad time for Glad and I, but I was thankful to have shared the last years of his life with him. Those memories, though few, have remained a special part of my childhood.

Betty Milligan
February 2018

The unique scent of the Ironbark, the crunch of twigs and leaves on the forest floor whenever I felt the urge to go wandering by myself.

The rustle of grass outside my bedroom window in the early mornings as Topsy and Daisymae grazed along the fence.  The taste of their milk, still warm and strained from the bucket leaving white froth around my mouth.

The continuous whirr of the Separator in the dairy as I turned the handle and watched with interest the rich cream separating from the milk.

Dolly, the draught hourse, plodding up to the fence for a pat and a chat whenever I walked out through the back gate.  The excitement of helpinng my father harness her to the cart in preparation for our trip into the forest to cut wood for the household.  The bumpy journey home through the paddock over the well-worn track, with my sister and I perched on top of the load of wood and the realisation as we helped to stack the logs that we had ridden in the company of many huntsmen spiders nestled under the bark.

The gathering of ‘mornings wood’ from beneath the trees along the roadside.  Curley bark and twigs were the secret of getting the morning fires lit quickly.  (Woe betide us if we forgot to collect the kindling.)

The kangaroos that grazed so close to the outhouse, or dunny, as we called it, unperturbed whenever anyone had the need to visit there.

My mother’s garden filled with Irises, Stocks, Snapdragons and Chrysanthemums planted around the cottage.  My father and his vegie garden, with me holding the reins as Dolly pulled the plough guided by my dad, to create the furrows in which to plant the potatoes.

The visits from the Iceman delivering blocks of ice in his ‘Rollscanardly’, the pet name for his delivery vehicle, and his explanation that it rolls down the hill but can hardly climb up them.  He would chat away cheerfully as I followed him into the house and watch him lay the huge block of ice onto a bag and with a small pick skilfully cut the ice in two so it would fit neatly into the ice chest.

And those evenings when my mother would stand on the verandah whistling to the curlews that echoed their eerie call back across the night forest.
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Now time has past and as I travel along the road toward the future I sometimes unpack my memories and think about the things I left behind. 
 
Betty Milligan
January/February 2018