The year was 1939, when Betty was born the World War would be in full swing. A year was to be synonymous with the troubles of the generation to come. Born into a family of seven, which would soon enough become eight. The eldest, a sister, being seventeen at the time, had just finished her studies and was entering into a nursing profession. She had moved into the nurse's quarters to live. Her mother Liz had fortitude of steel and a protective heart as warm as the sun. Her father Bill, a returned sailor, turned painter, who carried his memories on the green etched pictures on his bulky arms.

Brookfield Street would cast its shadow on all that resided in her walls, much like the line of ants that diligently followed their path home along the railings of the veranda of the old home at dusk. Days of neighborhood gossip, proving ones worth and guarding ones chickens, literally. Each day a struggle to survive, the tainted and sometimes overwhelming fear of what tomorrow would bring.

Measured meal portions, and seating arrangements were the nightly ritual. With six brothers and one older sister, the fight for supremacy in the colony seemed like a never-ending battle of wits and fists. A drunken father and a religious mother; both laying a path of obsession and self-righteousness. A worn out, handed down family belief system which created an intense air of arrogance. The will to make ones point of view heard was sometimes chilling.

It was a time of hurricane lanterns. If no one had a shilling for the gas meter under the house, which was often the case, all hell could break loose. This was how they showered and cooked. The happiest family member seemed to be Crackers the dog. He always seemed to find a safe zone down by the creek behind the chicken shed to shelter from the evening arguments.

Betty was a quiet child who soon learned that growing up with big brothers meant venting that tomboy image to exist as a family member. Her life of hand me downs left her longing to hear mums foot on the treadle of that old Singer perhaps with lace in her hand, not just mending the boys shorts again.

Her perfectly round freckled face and mothers mixing bowl hairdressing skills echoed the hard times. Brother Gus, two years her senior had nicknamed her Ging, due to a small yet stark streak of light red on one side of her dark hair. By the time she could walk and talk, she had learned to throw a ball and be part of the family team. It was always the pecking order, with

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