I have been through a number of life transitions, starting with the big move from UK to Australia, where I had to get used to a whole new way of life. As a very young primary student it was all a big adventure for me. Going from a tiny brick cottage with indoor facilities in lush green rural England to a larger wooden house with dunny way down the back, outside laundry and in the Australian bush. School systems were different too, but it opened up opportunities for me. Mum learning to cook on a wooden stove and me with the giggles every time she produced a wedge-shaped cake because she had failed to rotate it. Employment was easier to find and flat rentals cheaper, so this country girl could afford to move to the city where work was plentiful.

The second big transition was when I got together with some friends, and we hatched a plan to travel overseas. I had always been a rather shy and quiet child but was starting to learn how to come out of my shell somewhat. We booked a 6-berth cabin on a ship called the Fairstar, stopping in South Africa and Holland enroute to the UK, where I planned to catch up with family I hadn’t seen in 15 years or more. By departure day, I was the only one still travelling and shared the cabin with five strangers. Those strangers became friends.  It was the start of a 3-year working holiday in the UK where I experienced quite a variety of things, good and bad. By now I had gone from shy and quiet to confident and adventurous. My disasters have been the topic of previous submissions, as has my move from working in shops and stables to having the confidence to take up a career. Something I never thought I was capable of.

I took up a career in the Air Force after returning to Australia and soon made friends. Our group became the ‘Gluttons Club’.  We would go into town each pay fortnight and eat big at one of the many pubs, clubs or restaurants. Although Air Force food was OK, it was good to go out for some luxury too. I recall one trip to a place called “Dirty Dicks Theatre Restaurant”.  It was one of those places where you eat and see a show based on Elizabethan London, with buxom serving wenches and bawdy ballads. They had a chain of clubs all over Australia and the UK at a time when theatre restaurants were popular. I met a fella I rather fancied. He was eyeing off my roommate, and his roommate was eyeing off me. Basically, we all had ideas of who we would like to go out with, and all ended up with someone different. It worked out well in the end. I met my husband Paul and we began dating.

Paul was often rostered on as guard commander whilst I was in charge of security. We shared a long wooden hut and supported each other as colleagues. My big boss was a bit of a romantic and kept encouraging us to get to know each other better. After a year together I got transferred to W.A. Paul remained in QLD. We kept in touch and were devoted to each other. After Paul got a career opportunity outside the Airforce with a W.A. based company, we became engaged and began our lives as a couple. 47 years and many moves later we are still together and happy.
 
Heather Hartland
July 2026

It Ain’t Hoarding If It’s Books
 
A friend once gave me a badge that read “It’s not hoarding if it’s books”. To my family, that would have been as obvious as stating that the sun rises east and sinks west. My grandmother was probably the most selective. She preferred first editions and hardbacks in attractive bindings,  but if that was unaffordable, paperbacks would have to do. My mother didn’t care. Indeed, when I started Good Reading, she gave me some of her rarer first editions to sell provided I had another copy as replacement.

Having now run a second-hand book shop for nearly thirty years, I’m not sure I still believe in that statement. I have been invited into houses to buy books where the shelving of the books indicated an interest that had gone out of control. There was no longer any logical order, and some of the shelves had collapsed due to the weight of the books. Picking through the books was like archaeological dig, the books reflecting the owner’s changing interests, often over decades.

I have also been intrigued by the fact that in many ways the concept that “it ain’t hoarding if it’s books” still applies. Would Imelda Marcos have been so cruelly mocked if she’d collected thousands of books, rather than one thousand plus shoes? I suspect that this has to do with a period when literacy reflected social status.

But back to “family traditions”. My mother didn’t drive. We lived in North Carlton, but if there was a book fair anywhere in Melbourne, my mother would turn it into an outing. One of the best books fairs was an annual one in Box Hill. We would catch public transport and loaded with books, all incredibly cheap, a taxi back home. As this was before mobiles, I suspect it involved standing patiently on the main road waiting for a vacant taxi to drive past.

Book fairs and book shops were the only places where I could pick whatever I wanted without my selection being scrutinised by my mother or told “Too many, put some back”.  If anything, she would add to my pile with books she had loved or felt I should read.

Memory tells me that relatively speaking, books in the sixties, new and second hand, were much cheaper than they are today. Hopefully this is because writers today are paid higher royalties than then. As a negative, binding today can be atrocious, with books falling apart while being read, although that issue appears to have been addressed.

Which brings me to the elephant in the room: e-books. Will they in time replace the printed one? I don’t know. I have heard that the brain does not absorb information as well from a digital script as from a printed one. Personally, for me nothing will ever replace the tactile joy of a printed book or the ability to underline and highlight interesting sections (pencil only please).

There is something cold and unfriendly about tablets, though with space these days at a premium, they do make a lot of sense. Punch once had a wonderful cartoon of two very British gentlemen standing before a bookshelf containing three or four tablets. One remarks to the other “That’s a very impressive library you have there, Baines.”

I will finish with a toast to my sadly deceased partner Ken. Ken believed that one’s possessions should all fit in a plastic bag. He lived very closely to that belief, which left me with an infinite amount of space for my book hoarding, of which he was  amazingly tolerant. Except, of course, that “it ain’t hoarding if it’s books”.


Delfina Manor
​July 2026
 
 
 

​After the vows were made, Don and I retired to the vestry to sign the official papers while a friend sang a solo and then walked out of the church as husband and wife.

The ‘Wedding Breakfast’ was next door, catered for by the church ladies, after which we crossed the street, I changed into my ‘going-away clothes’ and we drove off to our honeymoon in my father-in-law’s borrowed car.

These thoughts returned as I was telling my Indian neighbour of the up-and-coming Greek wedding of my grandson and how it would be a rather more elaborate affair. “How many days will it take?” she asked. “Oh, just one,” I replied. “Well, in India, weddings take five days and there are four or five hundred people there.”

Mamta lived in the Punjab region in northern India and is from a Sikh tradition. Families share a house with relations. In her husband’s house there are twenty-seven people with uncles, cousins, grandparents, all living as one family.

Weddings are frequently ‘arranged’. In this case, Diwanpreet’s cousin was on the lookout for a suitable bride for him. He suggested Mamta as a possibility. Due to Covid, they could only talk to each other on the phone. After two months, Diwan asked Mamta to marry him and the engagement was sealed. They met in person just a month before the wedding.

Five days before the wedding, a hundred or more guests began to arrive at both the bride’s and the groom’s houses. Chefs were hired and neighbours provided beds. The night before the wedding a lively celebration was held with family and friends singing, dancing and taking turns to carry a special decorated tiered pot on their head.

Meanwhile, the wedding couple were preparing. Mamta had henna patterns painted onto her hands, arms and legs. Henna is supposed to be calming as well as looking beautiful. Her clothes were colourful and her makeup carefully painted on her face.

Diwan had a paste spread on his face, hands and feet, made from turmeric, chick peas and flour mixed with water. This is supposed to illuminate the face, especially in former days when there was very little light. The groom’s costume included a Sikh turban and also the carrying of a traditional sword.

The day of the wedding, the bride’s and the groom’s processions met at the temple and formally greeted one another. The Holy Book lay in the centre of the temple and was the central point for the wedding vows, to love and be loyal to each other. There are four parts to the vows and after reciting each part, the couple walked once around the Holy Book. Prayers were offered, then the legal papers were brought to the couple to sign while kneeling in the temple.

The ‘reception’ took place in the palace where hundreds of people gathered to share a communal meal. The groom had a garland of money which was thrown to make sure those who provided food and other expenses were adequately compensated, with extra money going to poor people. Including jewelry and clothing, the shared cost of a wedding can be A$60,000.

Family members meet each other – a bride’s uncle meets an uncle of the groom, mother meets mother, cousins meet, sisters meet, until all have connected.

The couple go back to the bride’s house where she farewells her family. This is a big occasion because she will now belong to the groom’s family. The final journey to the groom’s house for a very tired couple, completes the wedding.

​And whether a husband of own choice or family choice, a modest wedding or a
lavish celebration, I only wish Mamta and Diwan as happy a marriage as Don and I
enjoyed.

​

Carmyl Winkler
​July 2026

​The subject title could perhaps be ‘Life Traditions’.

I have been fortunate to have grownup and lived in small rural communities for most of my life, with the exception of three years in Melbourne and twelve years in Sydney.

In rural communities many of the prompts listed for this month’s subject would be considered traditional, if not mandatory.

Wetting the baby’s head, yes, three times. Confirmation, yes. Bar Mitzvah, no. The Debutant ball, yes. Exchange vows, yes, twice. Buck’s parties, yes, but lost count. The Wedding ceremony, yes, twice. The gold watch, no, but received a very expensive chronograph one. And, tin kettling, yes, but lost count.

From the internet: Tin kettling was an early 20th-century Australian rural custom where locals would surround a newlywed couple's home. Armed with kerosene tins, pots, and pans, they created a raucous serenade. The ritual required the couple to invite the crowd inside for drinks, dancing, and well-wishes.

Now, there always seemed to be some confusion, and a relative ‘grey’ area in relation to the timing of the above and the ‘official’  country traditional ‘housewarming’.

However, the ‘tin kettling’ was generally targeted at newly married couples, whilst the ‘housewarming’ was for newcomers to the district, although in some instances this covered both situations.

The timing was also questionable, as I attended ‘tin kettlings’ that took place at some ungodly hour of the evening or night, whilst the ‘housewarming’ was supposed to be of a more formal nature, and held at a time that suited the ‘target’ residents.

In many respects, either of the above events were what we would consider today to be a ‘house invasion’.

With ‘tin kettlings’, numerous ‘invaders’ arrived with the necessary equipment to make enough noise to disturb the entire district. 

The only redeeming factor was that all of the ‘invaders’ arrived with plates with all sorts of biscuits, cakes and sandwiches, and generally with enough food to actually feed the entire district, that they had just woken up.

I do recall that one such event had been planned for a newly married couple, after they had returned from their honeymoon.

The timing was set for mid-evening, when it was assumed that the couple had finished dinner and sat down to rest for the evening.

All of the ‘invaders’ assembled a short distance from the house and crept up on foot, making as little noise as possible. There was a light on inside, so we spread out around the house.

Once all were in position, we banged the assortment of metal paint tins, cooking pots and pans, making a considerable amount of noise. After a few minutes, we did not have a response from inside. Further investigation revealed that the ‘target’ couple were in fact, not at home.

It was later revealed that they had gone over to their parent’s place for a ‘welcome home’ dinner.

What did we do? We sat down on the front veranda and enjoyed the delights that we had brought along, however we left a couple of plates, with a note for the ‘target’ couple.

And no, we did not plan to ‘tin kettle’ them again.


Barry O’Connor.
July 2026

In the religious calendar of my early life there were three important rites: Baptism, First Communion, Confirmation.
 
The Baptism Certificate [redacted] was an essential document; as important as a birth certificate is in civilian life.
​
It still has currency. Recently I overheard a parent explaining,
               “ We are having our kid dipped so we can get him into the Catholic school.”
 
In the mid 1950s, my younger brother was baptised at St John’s in Euroa. The ceremony was conducted around a font at the back of the church. The priest sprinkled water over the the baby’s head three times; in the name of the Holy Trinity. Like many babies before him, my brother woke up and protested loudly at the indignity. The priest intoned prayers in Latin and baby brother became fondly known as Bernardus Gerardus.
 
My three school friends and I chose different paths regarding the baptism of our children.
Tess, the only one who married a Catholic, had her children baptised in a traditional ceremony.
 
Murph was devout and decided to become a nun - for a very short time. A few years later, I heard she had married an unholy trinity: a Protestant, an Englishman and - in a registry office!
 
When Murph came back to Australia, and started having children, her mother was concerned because an unbaptised child can never enter heaven. In the absence of a priest, a layperson can perform the baptism so Mrs Murph would encourage her daughter to sit and relax with a cuppa while she took the baby out to the kitchen and baptised it over the kitchen sink.
 
I married a Protestant in a Catholic Church; anywhere else would have been a bridge too far for my parents, but my kids were not baptised. I’m guessing my parents never asked in the interest of family harmony. Whether I saved or deprived my children will depend on the reader’s beliefs.
 
Another school friend had her first child later. In an ecumenical ceremony conducted by a Presbyterian minister and a Catholic priest, baby John was welcomed into Christian life in the backyard of the family home.The Presbyterian minister remained in his tailored grey suit and white collar, sipping a cup of tea with guests. The priest discarded his embroidered religious garment and became indistinguishable from the male guests. Dressed in casual clothes, he  joined the jovial group gathered round the bbq.
 
Communion and Confirmation were also steps that integrated children into the Catholic community.
 
My First Communion, at 7 years of age, was in Mansfield. The girls dressed like mini brides and boys wore suits. 

​The importance of the occasion was marked by parents serving us a sit down meal. My mother’s contribution to the feast was a tray of white marshmallow rabbits nibbling on a bed of green coconut grass.

​Confirmation: St John’s Euroa, 11 years old. I chose, from the list of approved saints, the name Cecilia, the patron saint of musicians and poets. What was I thinking! Maybe wishful thinking as I slaved over scales and exam pieces at the piano. The Bishop came over from Bendigo so it was an important occasion.
 
I’m not sure about current rituals, but the significance of religious rites and their underlying theology remain important to religious communities.
 
 
Anne Stewart
July 2026

I can’t remember my family having ‘Rituals’ as such, unless having one ‘Catholic’ in the family counts. Two really.
 
I was brought up in the Catholic Education System, which was fine or my earlier years, but as I reached the age of 10 or 11, I started to question some of the teachings.
 
My father went to Mass every Sunday, as well as important Catholic days during the year. I did this under sufferance. However on some Sundays, leaving home early enough for 9 o’clock Mass, I stopped off at my Aunt’s place to visit my cousin. Dad never seemed to suspect anything, so I just pleased myself. Looking back on my childhood, I must have been pretty self centred.
 
The nuns became used to my questions about their religious teachings, such as saying prayers to the Virgin Mary, and Jesus on the Cross.  The nuns were Idols in my book. I never received a satisfactory answer. They learnt to ignore my hand at question time, but as I became one of their top students, they learnt to put up with me, and I , them.
 
Sundays were roast day, the one day of the week when we sat around the table in the dining room. Mum usually invited my grandparents to join us for a two o’clock dinner. Due to Dad’s ritual, however, we could never really be sure of the exact time. The reason Dad liked the midday Mass was that it enabled him to have a beer at the local afterwards with Monsignor O’Grady. The two of them would arrive any time between 1.45 and 2.30 pm. Mum never seemed to mind, and they were always in good humour.
 
Monsignor was very‘round’in stature. He reminded me of Friar Tuck in the old Robin Hood movies. In between devouring his roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, he would keep us laughing with humorous jokes.  Mum’s desserts were always enjoyed, his favourite being creamy custard with golden syrup pudding.
 
After the table was cleared, the cards came out. If only four of us remained, we would play whist or crib. If all six stayed, we would play poker. Not for money, but with jelly beans. It was great fun!  I used to wonder if the nuns ever had this much fun in their off-time.
 
 
I had been in Australia for nearly two years when I received Mum’s letter telling me Monsignor O’Grady had passed away. Dad, Nan and Grandad and Mum had attended his funeral, fittingly given by the Bishop of London in the Cathedral.
 
Monsignor O’Grady was loved by so many people.   I wonder how many could boast of his company after Sunday Mass? Maybe even for Sunday dinner!!!

​
Jan Nichols
July 2026

​Cuddled up, snuggling  in bed at my Devitt grandparents’ house in North Caulfield, dawn would be beginning to break when I would hear my grandfather gently waking me up, bringing me a cup of tea with two milk arrowroot biscuits to greet the day.  How I loved to see him; how I enjoyed the safety of my grandparents home and loved their ritual of regular cups of tea with Milk Arrowroot biscuits.

Some years later, cuddled up, snuggling in bed at my uncle Lex Devitt’s unlined house on Tiger Hill, I would wake to hear him, cheerful always in the morning, boisterously crushing paper to light the open fire.  An antique iron urn with tap, water still warm from last night’s embers, sat on an old piece of railway line which doubled as a fender and hotplate.  For many years I’d wake hearing my uncle lighting the fire, though the electricity was eventually connected and the sound of a boiling electric kettle replaced the urn boiling on the hub.  A biscuit barrel full of Milk Arrowroot always had pride of place on his the kitchen table, occasionally mixed with equally enjoyed Arnotts Teddy Bear biscuits ‘for a change’.   My uncle would loudly and happily exclaim ‘Rise and Shine’ as he brought us our cups of tea with Milk Arrowroot biscuits.
 
My Grandfather and Uncle were clearly ‘morning people’.  Cheerful and ready to meet the day, they enjoyed the ritual of preparing a treat with which to wake up their family, leaving special memories to be cherished over time.

The Milk Arrowroot biscuits weren’t only an early morning treat, they featured at afternoon tea and supper, whenever we had a cup of tea and cakes weren’t available.  This was often – we weren’t really a ‘cakey’ family.  I wonder now whether the  experience of the Depression and the need to make ends meet meant that the ritual partaking of Milk Arrowroot biscuits became an inexpensive way to have a treat! 

My sister, who takes a while to wake up and loves to snuggle up in bed before greeting a busy day, is blessed to have a loving husband who always wakes up early and brings her one, if not two, cups of tea in bed, often with Milk Arrowroot biscuits, each morning.  What a treat, and what a joy to have a husband happy to carry on the family tradition.

I can never go past the biscuit shelves at the supermarket without thinking of my grandparents, uncle, and also my mother, whose shopping lists always included ‘Milk Arrowroot biscuits’, with the occasional change to ‘Nice’ or ‘Malted Milk’.  A deep sleeper who often took time to wake up, my sister and I would take turns in giving our mother a cup of tea in the mornings, letting her know the time as we gently tried to rouse her.  Always with a couple of Milk Arrowroot biscuits, of course!

Interestingly, when telling my sister recently that I thought perhaps I’d write about our family ritual of sharing cups of tea  accompanied by Milk Arrowroot biscuits, she shared her own memory of our grandmother suggesting she try the customary practice of introducing a milk arrowroot softened with milk to her daughter when she was making the transition to solid foods.
 
Perhaps this is when we become addicted to the delightful if dubious practice of dunking Milk Arrowroot biscuits! 
 
Throughout my life a particularly deep and meaningful question has always arisen when having Milk Arrowroot biscuits with a cup of tea in public – to dunk or not to dunk!  Our family across generations has been one which accepted and thoroughly enjoyed the ritual of dunking.  We were, however, advised and well aware that we were not to dunk our biscuits when out in public!

I became impossibly sad recently at the thought that, as a 70+ year old spinster without children,  it is quite unlikely anyone will bring me a cup of tea with milk arrowroot biscuits to waken me when I am snuggling up in bed ever again.  It certainly hasn’t happened for a long time.  The last time was possibly in 2009 when my then 96 year old mother wheeled a cup of tea and two Milk Arrowroot biscuits balanced on the seat of her wheely walker into my bedroom at her unit, greeting me warmly to welcome the day.  It is a very special memory of her I will always treasure.

Many of the beloved human beings who shared the ritual drinking and dunking of Milk Arrowroot biscuits with me over time have passed on.  These days, the closest I get to being on the receiving end of a similar ritual is, when in hospital, I hear a tea trolley in the corridor and not long after am courteously asked, ‘Madam, would you like a biscuit with your cup of tea?’
 
Beverley Lee

​Written in 2018-2019
(Prepared for 'Family Ritual' initially, then presented for another session drawing on items from our Ideas Piggy Bank, in this case imagine two Milk Arrowroot biscuits!)

​One of our family traditions was Sunday lunch at my parent’s home.  It was a deeply cherished tradition which created lasting memories.  My mother always cooked a roast with crispy potatoes and pumpkin, all in the pan together.  The thick brown gravy was made from the liquid in the pan. This was followed by an apple pie or trifle.   The aroma that greeted us was always amazing.  On occasions my cousins would join our luncheon.  The dining room table would be set with all the good china, silverware and crystal glasses, together with colourful napkins.

Sunday lunch served as a dedicated time to gather around the table to catch up on recent activities and enjoy lingering conversations.

My mother was a great cook as was her mother.  They were forever fans of Mrs Beeton’s Cookery Book and grew up baking the recipes inside.  It was first published in 1861.  My Maternal Grandmother won prizes at the local shows with her cooking and when the shearers came to the homestead, she was head cook. I still have the copy of the Mrs Beeton’s Cookery Book they used, which was published in 1923.

Another tradition we had when I was small was visiting my Paternal Grandparents for afternoon tea.  When my sister and I arrived at their home we were instructed to sit on a rug, as wandering around and touching the furniture was not permitted.  The smell that greeted us was always beeswax.  My Grandmother was also a very good cook, and she made beautiful meringues which were always kept in a big glass jar.  It was always our reward to sample one of the meringues with afternoon tea.

My Grandparents were country folk who came to Melbourne from Hamilton in the 50’s as did my parents. My Grandfather was a wheelwright in Hamilton but opened an Antique Mart in the 1940’s. I found an old docket book with his name and date on it.

I decided to do some research and contacted the Hamilton Historical Society to see if they knew of this Mart.  I was happily surprised when they contacted me with a few photos.  Apparently, the Mart was in the front of the building which was once the old Town Hall.  A Motor Engineering Company purchased the building in the 1940’s and the Antique Mart was situated in the front of the building.

​My grandparents loved their antique furniture and antiques and made a living out of selling them.  Eventually, when they moved to Melbourne, they opened an Antique shop in Burke Road, North Balwyn.  Their home was full of beautiful furniture and antiques.

Family traditions and rituals are often used interchangeably, but while all family rituals are traditions, they differ in their intention.

Rituals are repeated, meaningful practices designed to foster emotional connection, stability and belonging.  They transform daily, weekly, or seasonal habits into deliberate moments that strengthen family bonds.  Family traditions and rituals offer unique benefits that anchor your household.


Robyn Desmier.
July 2026

​Last Tuesday I came home to find my son Michael had sent me an unusual email.

Fancy Peter Dutton coming to Benalla--not just Benalla but to Rebbechi Court! I looked outside to make sure there were no crowds assembling. Maybe I’d missed it. Tuesday morning coffee was a long-standing arrangement but I would have foregone it to see Peter Dutton’s reaction to next-door’s orange galahs hanging in the tree.

I checked with Michael to see if he knew the time of the visit. He didn’t but was sure it would be before midday. This was just after midday, so it looked like I was away when it happened. Bother!

And then, an hour or two later, I discovered I had earned the title of April Fool.

Immediately I thought of twenty-five years ago, when I had rung five-year-old grandson Matthew to tell him that he needed to give a message to the school principal that morning. I don’t remember the exact message – it was something about an elephant let loose in Yarrawonga – but I do remember Matthew’s quavering voice asking me to repeat the message so that he could get it right.

Michael’s son, Joe, was about three when I rang to tell him there was a horse in the toilet. But the reaction I most remember was a year or two later when I rang Joe’s brother Zac, about six at the time, to tell him Melbourne Storm had relocated to Alice Springs. He burst into tears!

When I pondered these times, I felt I had been a very unfeeling Grandma. Those young boys probably didn’t even know what April Fool’s Day was all about.

However, before the day was over I received another email from twenty seven- year-old Zac, now a policeman. After thanking me for my birthday greetings, he said he’d intentionally emailed me that day because he always remembered the Grandma who master-minded pranks on him on multiple occasions in the past and how he loved telling these stories.

I felt forgiven.

He finished the email by letting me know that Anthony Albanese was stopping by Tallangatta bakery that day, for a photo opportunity with a vanilla slice!

April Fooling must have been something of a family tradition as Michael reminded me of the time he put green colouring in a bottle of milk. His father was not impressed.

When I was at school the rules about April Fool’s Day were pretty strict. If you tried to fool someone even one minute after midday, you were the April Fool. On the other hand, after midday, people could stick notices on someone’s back saying ‘Kick me’ and you could feel free to obey the request.

Maybe next year, I’ll be on the lookout for one of the gang maintaining family traditions, thereby turning me into an April Fool. I certainly won’t be ringing any children and leaving them in tears!

Carmyl Winkler