​​When I was young Easter was always considered a good break. I always looked forward to it. "Four days of Holidays", I thought. Plus, as I worked in a Bank, I also had the Tuesday off as well. Not that I could really enjoy it, because everyone I knew and wanted to hang out with worked on the Tuesday. I was always alone on this day.

My father always insisted that we go to church on both Friday and Sunday. This was a definite minus for me. Did I ever hear an enjoyable or even interesting sermon?

Also, since I was always home with my parents, there was a downside. I had to help with the milking. I could put up with helping in the afternoon, but I always found getting up for the morning milking to be hard - even painful. Getting up early - mostly before dawn - always interfered with my digestion. I always felt strange in the stomach for most of the day. I always had a deep sense of tiredness or even exhaustion that took a long time to recover from.  I was tired and wanted to sleep in. But no, it never happened. If I ever did sleep in, I had an overwhelming sense of guilt.  My father would guarantee it by saying - "I waited for you, but I had to get your mother up to help with the milking".

My father was pretty good at appealing to my conscience. "How about giving your mother a break", was one of his favourites. In fact this had always been his preferred way of running things. I wanted to take advantage of the situation and wanted to go places. I wanted to visit people. I wanted to go to dances--sometimes two in a night. I wanted to borrow my father's large car.  I wanted to go out and sing and play the guitar until late at night.  My father always appealed to my good nature. "Do you need to go out? Your Mother doesn't see you that often" was one of his favourites.  "We will worry if you are out all night.  We cannot sleep until you come home" was another.

The traffic on Thursday night coming out of Melbourne was enormous. You can give it any kind of label and you would always be right. Enormous - amazing - heavy - dangerous - unbelievable. Cars literally drove bumper to bumper. The Hume Highway changed from two lanes to one at the Ford Broadmeadows Factory. Traffic became either stop and start or just plain jammed at this point. Some cars always tried to drive on the right hand side of the road trying to pass the miles of cars in the traffic jam. Some cars tried to drive on the left hand verge to do the same. It took some time for the traffic to clear. It was normally bumper to bumper to Seymour. In fact, it was unrelenting. It was hard driving. This was before the freeway and before daylight saving.

If you look at the traffic accident rate for that period you will be surprised. It was normal for 14 people to be killed on the roads each weekend. Easter was worse.

Nevertheless, I dutifully did it year after year. I wasn't alone though. Pretty well all my relatives went home for Easter. It was a time when families came together. We always went to my Mother's sister for Easter Sunday. This sister had a fairly crude kitchen but she was always able to cook poultry enough to feed at least 15 people with some left over for tomorrow.  It was a genuine feast. How she did it I do not know. It was always mouth wateringly delicious.  After lunch was a time for relaxation for the men. They sat round after lunch to talk while the women cleaned up. My father liked talking to his sister-in-law's husband. He had slightly different political views than my father and he never went to church. But he had a recording of Winston Churchill's "This was their Finest Hour" and he would play it for my father.

The break always went quickly. Men always visited my father on Easter Monday. They did not stay for lunch and my father always talked to them outside in private. They spoke with serious faces.  I took it to be about either RSL matters or Masonic matters.

I didn't have to drive back to Melbourne until Tuesday when the traffic was better. I drove alone. I always had passengers on Thursday night, but they arranged to be passengers with people who returned to Melbourne on Monday.

It was always a relief to get back to the Essendon flat and relax.


Neville Gibb
May 2024

As a Christian, the Easter season has a significant meaning to me.  It remembers and celebrates the death and resurrection of our saviour Jesus Christ. 
 
The terminology of Easter means the remembrance of what is termed Holy Week.  In today’s largely secular society the emphasis, though, is not on the true meaning, but on the holiday period when the majority of businesses do not open their doors, schools are closed, and people travel from home.
 
My childhood Easter weeks were spent in the cold climate of Ballarat where I attended Catholic boarding schools.
 
Because of my family circumstances, while students went home for this week, I spent the time living at the school.  In my primary school years this school was Villa Maria, which was operated by the Sisters of Mercy, and, which the sisters would not be pleased to hear, I always regarded as an institution.
 
I, along with two or three other young boys, whose family circumstances I cannot recall, remained at Villa with the sisters, (or nuns as generally known).  There was no other option.  We were obliged to participate in the many religious ceremonies which were conducted.
 
Outside of these ceremonies there was little activity and we filled in our time as best we could.  There were too few of us for organised sport and, frankly, I don’t recall what we did.  Reasonable to suggest that it was a boring time.
 
My secondary education was conducted at St. Patrick’s College Ballarat, where the Christian Brothers were in charge.  It needs to be said that this time was before the scandalous days of clergy paedophilia (to my knowledge and experience, anyhow).
 
As with Villa, there were many religious ceremonies, but the Brothers’ were, dare I say, more open minded than the nuns.  Consequently, our involvement was not so onerous.
 
There was a larger number of students at St Pat’s, so there were several more students who did not go home.  And so, outside of the ceremonies, we were more able to occupy ourselves.
 
One significant difference from Villa was that the Catholic girls’ boarding school, Loretto Convent, was within walking distance.  One of St Pat’s duties was to provide altar boys for the Loretto ceremonies, and so the few boys at the college would vie for this duty.
 
Of course, similarly, there were fewer students remaining for Easter at Loretto, so there was a lesser chance of meeting with girls.  Nevertheless, it was a worthwhile challenge!
 
As youngsters I doubt that any of us appreciated the holiness of the religious ceremonies.  This was something which we had to come to grips with in later life, which was much more secular.
 
And so, my childhood remembrances of Easter are not really memorable.
 
Ray O’Shannessy
April 2023
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‘Fiesta of Festivities’ was the topic for the Benalla Festival's Writing Competition in 2019.  Betty's entry 'The Challenge', about the Molyullah Easter Sports.... 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
 
​

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.  


​Jenny McKenna