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To her family she was coy but truly she would be their Joy, a country girl from Kingaroy - the fourth of eleven. Over hill and range she did tramp living in tents from camp to camp by the glow of a railway lamp and the stars in heaven. Along the way past Many Peaks swam in Splinter and Monal Creeks where a child a gay frolic seeks in the heat of the day. Up on the range where it outlooks when not tending the campsite chooks she read in school her beloved books dreaming of far away. As an older girl on horseback she’d ride for miles a dusty track like a drover with a knapsack where the long trail begins. Up “dash it” early milking cows, picking cotton and feeding sows and shooting possums in their boughs to sell their bounty skins. “O someday I’ll teach school” she said till she met Arthur Hill and wed and bore life to her eldest, Ted, the first of eight to come. In Mt Morgan where miners drilled as rains came and Trotters Creek filled a new life on the land she’d build and be a wife and mum. But on their farm and dairy run “hells bells” there was work to be done from sunup to the setting sun and all must do their share. Through the Great Depression and war a boundless faith to God she swore and it burned in her evermore in His heavenly care. Her hands had many mouths to feed and so when hungry kids did plead she baked the bread dough that she knead in the old woodfired stove. And with her weary frame so sprite late as the curlews cried at night she read her bible with delight as it did her behove. In her time a digger of wells when the winds blew in dry hot spells and echoed the sound of train bells up and down the railway. A grazier, tiller, and sower, a painter, milker, and grower, a doer, thinker, and knower, and a potter of clay. To all her far flung family a great-great-grandmother was she and like a grandmother to me whom I most gladly knew. So now when I hear the tick tock and chimes of the pendulum clock or “tommyrot” and “poppycock” I’m reminded of you. Written: August 2016
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