By Nell Gorey

My earliest memories are of the farm at Fumina before the bushfire (1939). It was the usual mixed farm of that period, a small dairy herd, a few pigs, poultry and several acres of potatoes.

I started school at Fumina a very big occasion because I got my first pair of new boots. Being the 11th child new clothing was a rarity I remember spending most of that first day admiring my lovely new boots.

Starting school held no terrors for me as half the school population consisted of my brothers and sisters.

We had a 2 or 3 km walk along a bush track to school and we were invariably escorted by our cattle dog. Without fail he would arrive at the school at 3.30 to bring us home. On the way to and fro he would occasionally rout out a snake and kill it, much to our interest and delight.

Just as well he was around because I used to carry my new boots in my school bag to avoid damaging them.

One of my chores was to feed the poultry. We also kept a rooster and I must have made his life hell because if I saw him trying to mount a hen I would beat him with a stick. (I thought he was hurting them.) Not unnaturally at sight of me he would go on the attack. Eventually I was removed from that duty.

Another chore was feeding Sally the pig. Sally was quite famous because she frequently broke out of her enclosure and tracked us to school. Her arrival at the school (she would be heard grunting outside the door) was greeted with cries of "Sally Gorey" is here! I remember once being given the job of taking her home and we spent a delightful few hours meandering around together.

Feeding her consisted of boiling up a large billy of potatoes on an open fire until they were cooked. With a bucket of milk from the dairy and vegetable peelings and such she thrived.

In boiling up the potatoes I was assisted by Peter. I was not yet 7 and he was 3. I suppose someone else prepared the fire but that I don't recall.

Anyway we would tend the fire with small bits of wood and if we were hungry when the potatoes were cooked we would sample a few. Then putting a stick under the handle of the billy we would grasp one side each and set off for the pig paddock and Sally's trough.

How we were never burnt or scalded I shall never know.

I used to believe totally in stories about fairies as a little child and I remember spending hours near a circle of mushrooms waiting for them to appear.

We little ones also had total faith in "Father Christmas" and would pen our wish list to him and place it in the privet hedge. Unfortunately we were a poor family and our requests were mainly ignored much to our bitter disappointment. I ask myself sometimes should we perpetuate these beliefs.

By this time in my life we were entering the summer of 1938-39 and the horrors of that devastating bushfire were soon to strike. I had just turned 7 but I remember it quite clearly.

The summer day turned black as night and smoke and cinders engulfed us. We were huddled in a large paddock away from our home under wet blankets.

Our father and our older brother held the farm horses but the rest of the stock had to fend for themselves. I watched as our home exploded into flames as did all homes on other properties. The heat was intense. Much of the aftermath is a total blank.

The rescue parties, where we were taken and who by I do not recall. I watched the group of men who came to tell our parents of Michael's death in the inferno but in a detached sort of way. I suppose a little child can only cope with so much.

The farm was destroyed and that way of life was over but one bright note, my friend Sally the pig survived by immersing herself in the dam and was sold off to someone who I hope, gave her a good life.