“I have to do an assignment Nana, can you tell me about the time in your life, when you were my age”? my 13 year old granddaughter asked.

As I thought of their powerbill in their centrally heated  all electric home, my mind went back to the warmth experienced in my home when I was of a similar age.

I explained to Emma that the area where our family lived was very cold.  Even in the summer time the temperature was rarely above twenty five degrees, yet we were always well prepared for the cold winter months.  The old corrugated shed in the backyard would hold a plentiful supply of wood to fuel the kitchen stove and the open fire place.  It was my brother who was responsible for splitting the wood into smaller pieces or kindling and keeping the woodbox inside the house full, providing enough wood for the next day and night.

The cast iron stove in the kitchen was kept alight all day, not only providing a lovely warm kitchen but a constant means of cooking.  A kettle sat on the hob, always on the boil and the oven temperature was tested by feeling its door knob.  Too hot to touch meant temperature ideal for cooking scones, medium heat suitable for cakes or a roast, just warm ideal for the cooking of a pavlova.  As the temperature and fire decreased following the evening meal, damp clothing would often be draped around the stove to air.  At night a fire would be lit in the dining room and the family would enjoy an evening in the room, warm and cosy despite the bitter temperatures outside.

With old newspaper screwed up tightly and kinding atop, the fire would be ready to light.  My dad would often throw some kero on the pile and then light a match to ignite the paper.  Whoosh, the flames would leap straight up the chimney and many times cause the inside of the chimney to catch fire, causing some consternation.  Heavier pieces of wood would be quickly added to the fire which would settle to crackle away cheerfully, bright embers glowing like burnished gold; then time spent gazing, mesmerised whilst prodding the ever changing embers with the old iron poker.

It was so warm in this room - doors would be closed as we pursued our different interests safe and in the comfort of home and family.  I would be keen to listen to a radio play transmitted from the brown Bakelite AWA wireless, a pile of comics and Enid Blyton stories stacked up beside me.  Mum would sit in her chair knitting, darning socks or doing fancy work with Semco cottons.  Dad would be happy in his chair with a Craven A cigarette and the latest copy of the Herald newspaper, often creating general discussion with all present.  Siblings would play cards or board games or attend to homework.  There was always a cast iron kettle sitting in the fireplace ready to provide hot water for a night cap of hot cocoa; late in the night we would sometimes, with the use of a long handled wire fork, cook toast on the glowing embers.

At bed time as children we would often undress into night clothes beside the fire, our rubber hot water bottles would be filled and then a dash out into the cold bedrooms before snuggling into our beds. 

“That sounds lovely, Nana,” said Emma as she reverted to playing with her electronic device.
 

Jenny McKenna,
​May 2019

Right here, Right now, at the corner of Bridge and Nunn...
​
​I do a right hand turn at the traffic lights, aware of the cacophony of  noise. Bearded riders rev their motorbikes. Like gladiators on their iron horses, they appear formidable in their battle clothes of leather as they wait for the lights to change colour.
 
A mother pushes a pram , laden down with shopping bags, she helps her older child across the road. The toddler attempts to dance in a multi colored  fairy dress and whines in a loud voice as the mother urges her to hurry. A guitarist strums his guitar and a generous passer by contributes a few coins into his open guitar case outside Target shop.
 
Pedestrians move as one along the street, a sea of people, some chatting, others alone and intent.  Young long legged girls in short shorts, talk and gesticulate at the same time, elderly citizens deftly negotiate the street traffic in motorised carts, visitors stroll aimlessly. Happy faces, worried faces. Overweight males and females pass skinny, tattooed males and females.  Short or tall, they wear a variety of clothes and footwear. Some are emptyhanded, others carry handbags, shopping bags, backpacks and odd shaped articles of various dimensions.
 
Jazz music emanates from the coffee shop, patrons sit and exchange their news while others pore over newspapers as their pedigreed dogs sit patiently beside them at outside tables, bordering the footpath.
 
Signs provide interest and colour.  Chemist.  Menswear.  Sale.  A neon sign flashes “Fish and Chips”.
 
Good to see Alex from the cheap shop setting up his wares.  
 
Windows gleam in the sunshine of a lovely summer day.  Cars of different colours are parked along the side of the road, the odd one moving gingerly into the stream of slow moving traffic.  A cool shade of green from the avenue of street trees provides a beautiful contrast to the kaleidoscope of colour.
 
A woman sitting at a card table in front of a shop sells Raffle tickets for a local charity.   People moving, people talking, a time frame, a photograph, a snapshot of life, a myriad of the moment.
 
I observe unnoticed from the comfort of my car as I complete my L shaped turn, aware that what I have seen right here, right now has changed in an instant and  only an advertising sign remains in the same picture.  Even the trees change appearance as a slight breeze causes their leaves to move and alter the shaded area.  
 
A new wave of people saunter along, someone whistles, a mobile phone rings, a cyclist props his bike against a bollard.
 
Unstoppable, undeterred, time ticks on, the moment has gone.
 
Jenny McKenna
November 2017

“What a beautiful town!   We had no idea!”, the travelling caravaners enthused, “We were just going to drive right through, but the gardens and the lake captured our eye and, what is that Mural building beside the bridge?’ 

​The strains of ABBA music enhancing the 1970’s fashion display drifted down the hall, and the video on the nearby wall depicted the gliders taking off.  “Oh my god Alf, just look at that, Alf loves flying”.  The couple watched enraptured as the craft soared above the town and circled with an upward  draft above the canola fields nearby.  
 
The Japanese boys who had been asking about the history of Ned Kelly and marvelling at the armour displayed were anxious to know, where is Stringy Bark Creek, how far from the town? And was that where the policemen were shot?  They were students residing in Melbourne and were keen to follow the Ned Kelly Trail.  The Irish Ballad played softly in the background.  
 
A family of five wandered in after walking around the lake, the children very excited having seen a platypus in its natural habitat.   The family had a picnic lunch at the mural, the children investigating all the nooks and crannies and allowing tired parents to view the lush green of the gardens and the stately image of the art gallery on the other side of the lake.  Lovers of the outdoors the family were advised of the wildflower display at Reef Hills and of the ecology and variety of birds at Winton Wetlands.      
 
“Is there a toilet nearby?” some elderly visitors enquire.   "Straight down the passageway", I’m able to say.
 
A driver of a mini bus appears, “Looking for the Pearl Barley Flour Mill”, he says anxiously. Providing him with a town map, he is directed to Saleyard Road.
 
A busy day, another bus carrying twenty Probus members from Geelong arrives. After spending an hour or two viewing the Rose garden and the Art Gallery, they are now visiting the Historic Museum.   They enjoy displays depicting Weary Dunlop and Captain Hec Waller, war heroes who were both born in Benalla, and read the information on former New Zealand prime minister Michael Savage who came from humble beginnings in Tatong.  The Ned Kelly exhibition including the cell that holds the treasured green cummerbund, awarded to  teenager Ned, is of particular interest.    The women in the group are anxious to see the exquisite clothing beautifully displayed of 1930’s formal fashion.  With oohs and aahs the remainder of the group admire the dolls house made in intricate detail and replicating a magnificent home of the 1950’s.  They continue on past the memorabilia of Benalla to view a display of fashions of the 1970’s which also incorporated a display of Prue Acton designs.   “Remember those skirts” they exclaim. “I’ve still got one of those belts” says another as the Beatles music relives the times.
 
Two cyclists  arrive, all Lycra and helmets, bikes laden with panniers, “We have ridden from Beechworth,” one says in a heavy German accent.   “Is there somewhere we can pitch our tent!” Reassured they are instructed to try the Caravan Park and yes they do have a communal kitchen.
 
A utility and trailer park out the front in the designated area.  A cheeky faced thirty something wants to know how to get to Winton raceway.   “Got anything on to occupy the ladies?” he says with a wink.  Knowingly I advise what is currently on at the Performing Art Centre and provide him with a map of the walk around the town to view the street art, also offering brochures on coffee shops and local shops, not forgetting the much sought after op shops.
 
A group of Irish friends are viewing maps and brochures before asking for post cards to send overseas and enquiring where the Indigenous garden near the lake is situated.  The phone rings.  “Where is the basketball stadium and is the Pony Club near the Benalla Race Club?”
 
It’s becoming busier as closing time nears.  “Just want a list of nearby wineries and  what time is the Aviation museum open?” a portly, bearded man enquires.
 
Another phone call, “Where are the disused Crystal mines located?”
 
New to Benalla, a young lad asks "When does the tennis season commence?"  
 
Looking at memorabilia, an elderly couple with a foreign accent, ask "Is it possible to see the Migrant Camp?". A Polish couple, returning after fifty years, they recalled how their children were amongst the Polish dancers who entertained Benalla for many years in their colourful national dress.
 
Preparing now to close, early retirees walk in smiling.  “Silly question,”  they say, ”But we love the vibe of this town and we are thinking of moving here to live”.  “Could you advise?”
 
 
Jenny McKenna     

They drifted into town independently, alone, odd ramshackle figures, unkempt, with scant belongings.  Drifters, seasonal workers, no fixed places of abode.  The season was starting.
 
Combined by the common belief they would pick up work somewhere, they walked. No mobile phones to call ahead, no reference to Google. No support from Government or Employment agencies, just walking from farm to farm accepting knockbacks and moving on until eventually work was assured.  
 
They were known as the Spud Diggers, devoid of families and friends, a loose knit group who didn’t appear to seek company with their fellow workers or anyone in the vicinity.   People of few words with pasts unknown.
 
My parents had a drapery store in the small country town and when the diggers gradually arrived by rail or on foot, having hitchhiked from some other remote town, many would stock up with  suitable clothing from Dehnes Drapery Store.  Thick flannelette shirts,  sturdy work trousers, long johns, thick woollen socks, sturdy jackets, grey blankets, anything that would protect them from the  bitter cold whilst they worked through the cruel winter.
 
My father always treated  the men with respect and made sure they were well equipped for the season.   If they were unable to pay him at the time he would say, “Fix  up the account when you can”.  Most did honour this arrangement, some would leave at the end of the season only  to return 12 months later and “fix up” their debt.
 
The diggers living and working conditions were harsh.  Working manually with a sturdy shovel they would work in the paddocks from morning till night, edging along the rows of green plants digging into the rich red soil, loosening the dirt to reveal a nest of potatoes which the digger would transfer by hand into large hessian bags.  Once full the bags, which would hold 80 lbs of potatoes, were hand sewn with bag needles and twine. The bags were transferred manually by the men.    
 
Day after day from daylight to dusk their labour would continue until the acerage had been harvested.   Sun was never seen in the miserable winter.  Thick fog hung for days, constant mist covered the area like a grey muslin curtain, dampening the most robust spirit. Temperatures always in single figures, icy frosts and snow would take their toll on the lives of the diggers.
 
I recall as a child two separate occasions when the body of a digger was found. One poor man was found in a paddock and the word from the local policeman was “The poor bugger froze to death”.   The  diggers generally lived in huts on the farms. One room slab huts, one everything, one door, one window, if not broken, one small open fireplace, one tin chimney. Minimum building, minimum contents, no  running water, no electricity, lanterns or candles the only means of light.  Two brothers were found in their hut by the farmer when they hadn’t arrived for work.  One brother had died overnight, the other brother, suffering from pneumonia, was transferred to hospital where his clothes  had to be cut to be removed,  he was spared for a few more months in the luxury of  clean sheets, good food and the warmth of care.
 
Automation and technology  have changed farming techniques and work requirements, and the characters and working conditions that machinery has replaced  have become memories of the past.

​​Jenny McKenna
April 2017

Six girls from the bush were we!  All great friends, brought together by our love of tennis.  Playing at our local club at least twice a week, our standard varied, but there were enough strong players to help improve the play of the weaker few.  Carefree days playing competition tennis, travelling to various other clubs for all day tournaments, occasionally bringing home a well deserved trophy.  Amidst much chatter, sumptuous afternoon teas, wearing the latest tennis gear and sporting much valued tennis rackets, we shared so much of our lives, which extended well beyond the game of tennis.

Once a year we would travel to Melbourne for Country Week Tennis.  The excitement would gradually build as plans were made for accommodation, tennis outfits, what to wear in the evening, who would drive, who would manage the children on the Homefront, what shows we might manage to see, how the team would play and various strategies planned.
 
One particular year we all stayed in a player’s daughter’s flat.  Generously accommodating us with extra mattresses, Tanya was the perfect host.  This was the last year we played in extreme heat.  Each day we would return home, hot and tired, but still always keen to glam up in the evening and go out to dinner.  My own daughters lived in a house some distance away with an outdoor hot tub.  After one day of extreme heat and tennis we decided what better way to unwind and freshen up but spend some time in the warm, bubbly spa.  We quickly changed into our swim wear and drove across town, each with an accompanying towel.

How we enjoyed a relaxing soak on our tired muscles.   After a pleasant unwind amidst much banter and laughter, we clambered out of the spa, wrapping ourselves in our towels before darkness set in.  Hunger pains had started, so we decided to quickly change into our finery before going out for dinner.

Back at the flat, who had the key?  We quickly realised no one had the key.  Our very gracious host had gone out for the evening, and these were the days before mobile phones!
 
As the night air became cooler, so did we.  Food and warmth became our main priority.  We had two cars, so we searched the boots and cars for excess clothing.  What a conglomeration!  Being cars from the country, there were some odd assortments found.  Men’s shoes, thongs and extremely large man’s tracksuit pants, a Benalla footy jumper and not much else.  We shared amongst us as best we could, including towels wrapped around us as skirts.

Shivering now, where could we go for a meal?  Someone suggested Sizzlers, a very large restaurant with smorgasbord meals.  What a pathetic sight we must have looked as we sidled in, a group of bedraggled, unkempt middle aged ladies, all showing far more skin than intended, some in bare feet, others in men’s footwear far too big for them.  We piled our plates and chose a table as close to the Bain Marie’s as possible, hoping to benefit from the warmth.  Some could laugh, others were mortified as we sat on as long as possible until we felt our host would have returned. 

In the meantime, the high heels, the fashion clothes, the make up and the jewels remained unused in the safety of the flat.  Fortunately or unfortunately this incident remained unrecorded as, like everything else, our cameras were also safely confined!

Courtesy costs you nothing he would say.  A stickler for manners and politeness, he did not reprimand us so much for failing to do homework but more of the need for apologies and an attitude of respect to those around us.  A much admired but strict teacher during my secondary education, Mr McLoughlin’s often repeated ‘Courtesy costs you nothing’, has often come home to me.  When I have felt impatience, anger and a range of reactions provoked by the attitudes of others, a certain restraint and tolerance to the annoyances has often prevented unpleasant altercations, but even more so avoided gross misunderstandings of why some people have reacted in particular ways.
 
I recall when a rather aloof woman customer checked in to the office at our motel.  Dressed in what one immediately recognised as designer clothes and beautiful fashion shoes, her tone of voice indicated a lady of a well educated background.  Essentially blonde with a winter tanned skin, the middle aged attractive, well proportioned woman perused the breakfast menu that was sitting on the counter with what could only be perceived of as disdain. 

​With a flourish of the pen, Mrs Prudence Fitzsimmons filled in the register with obvious impatience.  Barely listening as I gave her directions to her room, Mrs Fitzsimmons snatched the key to her room from my hand and literally flounced out of the motel office.  To describe this customer as snooty and rude would be an understatement, but another old adage stayed with me, ‘the customer is always right’.
 
Several hours later, Mrs Fitzsimmons returned to the office requiring directions to the local church where she was attending a wedding.   Ever obliging, if not a little tongue in cheek, I gave her directions to the church, plus a complimentary town map.

A busy night ensued, but eventually all customers had booked in and we were able to close the office doors at 8 pm.  Watching television and half asleep with the sheer exhaustion resulting from being on call 24 hours a day, the night bell rang at 9.30 pm.  This wasn’t uncommon, but it was always disappointing when our time out was interrupted.

Brushing tiredness away, I walked through the darkened office to unlock the door, to be confronted by Mrs Fitzsimmons who had inadvertently locked the key to her room in her room.  In an exasperated voice, as if saying to me ‘it’s all your fault’, she demanded I come and open her door with a spare key. 

With great control, I asked after the wedding and commented, “You’re home early”.  Imagine my surprise when her modulated voice quivered, her aloof appearance crumbled and she began to sob uncontrollably.  I was shocked and put my arm around her in a comforting gesture.  I walked her back to her room and helped her inside, sat her down and offered to make her a cup of tea. 

An hour later I emerged having listened to Prue’s story.  Recently widowed, this brave lady was making her first social appearance without her much loved husband.  A very genuine person, Prue talked as if I was a cherished friend.  I felt privileged that she shared so much with me over that cup of tea.  I also was relieved that I had remained courteous at all times and that she felt free to share with me her grief and loneliness.

The next day Prue left.  We even kissed goodbye.  As she drove away in her imported sports car, another adage crossed my mind.  ‘Never judge a book by it’s cover’.  


Jenny McKenna
July 2016

During the week I listened to an interview with a paramedic and people who were first on the scene of a traumatic situation about how they managed.  The paramedic’s statement resonated with me when he described driving to an emergency, sirens blaring, his own heart beating furiously, aware he would be the person striving with the appearance of a calm demeanour that would reassure those around him, regardless of his own misgivings.
 
I could relate to so many areas in my nursing career when my own sense of calm was essential to maintain a feeling of reassurance, control, guidance and comfort to others
.
One's own feelings rarely were allowed to show and yet the memories remain.  The times when the real feelings were shown were rare in public, yet I hope people could sense my empathy.

Maintaining a professional barrier sometimes was lowered and personal emotions were occasionally glimpsed in those nearby.  A brief chat with fellow staff often helped alleviate feelings and certainly in the privacy of home and a very understanding partner I could talk about my true feelings in handling sensitive situations which would pull on my heartstrings.  The situations did not go away quickly and many a night I would have hours of disturbed sleep, thinking of the people in my care, returning to work the next day, quietly confident and reassuring and hopefully instilling the same feelings to those in my care and also those I worked with.

So many memories, the little girl and her Jewish family, where death intervened as echoes of Happy New Year could be heard from the street below; the emergency department in Melbourne city hospital; the overdoses; the people who had the mysterious headache that enabled them to be admitted, thus giving them a place to stay for the night.  Running with an orderly through the tunnels underneath the hospital with a patient on a trolley heamorrhaging, hoping we could get him to theatre before he died, trying to tell him it’s okay.  Being first on the scene of a car accident with three fatalities, others desperately needing assistance and miles from help.

In latter years I have worked at the Benalla Hospital and in aged care.  Resuming work at Benalla hospital after a brief break, amongst quite a few changes I was shocked to find new laws to protect drug addicts from using dirty needles meant hospitals were responsible for providing clean syringes and needle packs when requested.  We were not to judge and of course always maintain the confidentiality of the client.  To hand over a pack of needles and syringes, which thankfully didn’t happen every day, was so difficult.  Knowing some of the clients, I felt complicit, but remained impassive.  There was nothing I could do to change the request.
​ 
I eventually moved into working in aged care where I helped care for the same people over a period of time, many years for some.  Working in this environment was like being with and caring for an extended family.  I felt privileged to play a small part in these people’s lives and many times shared emotions with patients and families.  The barrier was breaking down. 
 
Jenny McKenna
June 2016
 

What a topic! 

I was fortunate to be born into a loving family, the second child of two wonderful parents.  The topic bought home to me that I have taken so much for granted in my life, a life in which I have been surrounded by love – what more could one ask for?
​
My early memories as a child were living in Thornbury and then starting school in Oakleigh.  My most vivid memories are then moving to Trentham in central Victoria and the excitement when my parents purchased their first car, one of the many material objects I learnt that one usually had to wait for.
 
At about the age of 8 I was desperate to have a two-wheel bicycle.  The girl next door had one and she would allow me to ride it, sometimes around the block on the unmade road.  We gradually learnt to dink each other or to take it in turns, one to ride the bike, the other to run along beside.   Occasionally, as happens with girls about that age, we would have a brief falling out and my access to the bike would cease temporarily.  How I longed for my own bike!
 
The following Christmas I so hoped for a bike and can remember my disappointment when Santa did not leave me a bike.  As one of five, I suspect at the time finances were a little tight.  Nevertheless, I recall very happy Christmases – whatever presents we received, we valued.

Another birthday came and went, again no bike.

The following Christmas I recall racing with the rest of the family to the dining room where traditionally Santa left the presents.  And there it was, a size 26 inch bike, with a bell!  Light blue and white with a dash of red was the distinctive color; though not as bright as my friend’s next door, it was a magnificent sight.

Some years later I realised it must have been second hand, which meant nothing to me.  It was my bike!  I rode it whenever I could - along bush tracks with my friend, on footpaths, up hills, down lanes, along the sparse bitumen road, down to the shops, off to school – it was the best possession I ever had.

Maybe learning at an early age that I could not always have everything I wanted and that it didn’t have to the the best of its kind prepared me for life.

I recall with our own children, when everyone seemed to have a coloured television, still having the old black and white.  I wanted them to appreciate not having to have what everyone else seemed to have.
 
Perhaps not putting too much emphasis on material wealth has stayed with me.  Perhaps my not getting overly excited at the prospect of an exciting event or occasion such as Christmas or birthdays harks back to not wanting to be disappointed.   Perhaps this is why I relish and enjoy an event more after it has occurred and its memories linger on.
 
Jenny McKenna
April 2016

I would like to say my life has been one of daring, cliff hanging escapades but I know deep down, although I love a change of pace, the risks probably haven’t been too great.  Most times an invisible safety net has precluded me from anything too daring!
 
On reflection, there have been incidents!  Incidents I didn’t choose to be hair raising, but they were. 
 
One heart stopping incident occurred when my husband and I chose to take a scenic flight in a small sea plane to observe the fiord area of New Zealand.  All roads leading into Milford Sound had been closed and flights cancelled because of poor weather, so we were delighted to find that a flight over Doubtful Sound was available.  
 
On reflection, the weather report and the name ‘Doubtful Sound’ should have been a warning.  Taking off with great excitement it wasn’t long before we hit bad weather.  I likened the aircraft to a fly in a thunderstorm.  Dropping sideways, we gradually lost altitude and the looming, snow covered mountains became precariously close.  My husband and I were silent.  My thoughts were ‘we will never be found, it’s going to be quick!’  It was truly terrifying.  Many lurches and dips by the plane, with visibility very poor, added to our fears.
 
Eventually the pilot managed to turn the aircraft around and head back to land safely on a lake.  As we shakily scrambled out of the plane the pilot acknowledged he would never have flown had he realised how risky it was.
 
And then there was the incident when we were managing a motel in Melbourne’s outer northern suburbs.  We had been hired as trouble shooters by the owner, who suspected that his current managers were pocketing the takings.  This was quite a big motel and restaurant and it wasn’t long before we found evidence that implicated the managers of wrong doing.  The managers consequently were sacked and we were asked to stay on for a month until new managers were found. 
 
What follows was a series of threats, stalking and harassing calls, so much so we felt our lives were at risk.  The owner employed a private detective to ensure our safety.
 
It was a frightening area.  We experienced our car being broken into and contents stolen.  The restaurant was being used by undercover police to record drug deals across the road.  The fence, yes the whole fence, of the school opposite as stolen.  Previously the body of Karmein Chan had been found about 500 metres from the hotel.
 
Then there was the time when we innocently brought back from Bali to Australia a package a Balinese had asked us to deliver.  Nearly an international incident that one! 
 
Some I would classify as ‘close’ incidents.  One involved finding a deranged murderer I was nursing had removed his restraints during night duty St Vincent’s Hospital in Melbourne.  No security or police were in attendance.  We came to a verbal agreement.  The same person was found later to be harbouring several knives and to have a very paranoid personality.   
 
We all have stories to tell.  Like the film ‘Sliding Doors’, twists of fate, luck, decision making right or wrong all contribute to each person’s life story.  Our many years of running The Top of the Town Motel added to our list of incidents, some unique, some scary, some funny enough to develop new scripts for our own Fawlty Towers.

Ah, those China Easter eggs.  Beautifully coloured in soft pastel combinations with a fancy edge of icing denoting the half.  Adorned with icing flowers in pinks, mauves and lemons and stems of soft greens, they were definitely the Easter eggs for girls.  Too delicate to eat, they would last for weeks until the temptation became too much.  

This was only part of the most pleasant memories of visiting my grandparents during the famous Bendigo Easter Fair.  

How to eat those china eggs was a challenge in itself.  Taste buds would eventually champion over sentiment.  A gentle tap of the moulded egg against a permanent fixture usually had no reaction whatsoever.  A little more force required.  A hard bang against the porcelain kitchen sink would not even create a crack in the surface of the egg, though I suspect the porcelain could have been affected!  

I remember inability to break the egg into lady-like portions giving way to impatience.  The decorative flowers on the top of the egg were smaller and separate from the original mould and appeared to be more obtainable.  A sharp knife would be used in an attempt to prise the petals, which apparently had been glued on to the egg with Tarzan's Grip.

Resorting to a dental attack--teeth could not budge the dainty little flowers, even licking the petals did not deliver the sweetness expected, but rather tasted like a bland, cold stone.  

I recall my dear old grandfather suggesting a fairly clean roofing nail and a hammer may be the only way to crack the edible egg,  While I tentatively held an egg on its side, my grandfather summed up the plan of attack. "I'll whack it right in the middle" he said as he delivered a hearty blow.  

The egg cracked!  Another hearty blow and two bite size pieces of the beautiful egg were mine!

Greedily, I remember popping the first piece in my mouth.  All the expectations of a taste of the long awaited Easter treat came to a disappointing end.  Although I had never tasted bone china, I felt I was sampling a piece of a prized dinner set.  I could not bite or chew the offending morsel.

What did one do, when one was supposed to be grateful for the efforts of an enterprising grandfather?  

With a fixed smile and a bulging mouth I wandered outside to the back verandah, adorned with an age old grapevine, where a long used milk can held wheat and a dipper for feeding the chooks.  With a steady aim I spat the remnants of the china egg into the wheat container.  With child like knowledge, I felt the chooks would benefit with this addition to their diet, strengthening the shells of their eggs.  

My grandfather never commented on the chooks and their eggs that Easter, but for the many Easters that followed I was grateful for the chocolate Easter eggs, wrapped in coloured foil, that satisfied the taste buds and could be eaten in small portions or all at once, without intervention.  

​