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.
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
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.
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
