‘Growing up in Australia used to look a whole lot different’

“Oh Gracie you live in the land of clumsy clot,” my mother used to say to me regularly, usually piling more red mercurochrome on my already liberally daubed knees.

People think that children live in a dangerous world now, but as a child of the 1940s I can tell you it’s a miracle we survived to produce said children and the consequent grandchildren.

Dad was a baker, Mum looked after the shop and house and I was an only child. While I was indeed a living, breathing girl, in my Mum’s eyes she didn’t have a daughter, she had a doll. My hair was in curlers every night and I was wrestled into nice dresses covered with a voluminous pinafore every morning. Despite my mother’s effort I was far from a tidy, well-behaved doll. In fact, you’d be hard pressed to find something more at home in the land of clumsy clot than I.

Girl stuff was so boring so off I went across the paddocks to play with the local boys. Turning up with cakes I nicked from the bakery ensured they let me into their little clique.

Being a girl and seven years younger than the boys, I was delegated to being an Indian in their games and was usually killed by the cowboys many times in an afternoon. There was a creek that we like to play in too. Remember that pretty dress my mother made me wear? It came off and I was in splashing in the water in a singlet and bloomers. An Australian summer saw them dry quick enough out so no questions were asked when I returned home late in the afternoon.

Animals were plentiful in our neighbourhood too. I loved ferrets but as Dad wouldn’t let me play with his, I went off to the neighbours to harass theirs.

Never would I let them out of their cages; I was just there for a pat. My fingers went through the cage and low and behold the ferret did what ferrets do and latched onto one of my tasty finger. The ferret wouldn’t let go so I was stuck. Never one to miss an opportunity, I had a spare hand so patted that furry little head with the other hand.

Strangely I wasn’t scared as I knew I would be found and it didn’t hurt too much. My faith was rewarded when Mum thought I had been missing too long and told Dad, who told the the dog, to go find Gracie.

Not only did my finger hurt that day but so did my backside. They had to cut the wire to get me free and, as ferrets are known for not letting go, had to employ a pair of pliers to open that mouth. Ferrets are like kids to their owners and the old bloke (as we called anyone over 40) was very worried that I had traumatised his little mate.

Do I still live in the land of clumsy clot at 80 years old? Too right I do!