In our day we had to learn to do most things to survive.

We were happy. We killed all our own meat, and this all happened here on Vermont orchard.

We used to make our own butter ... I shouldn't tell you the whole story of this because it was illegal.

When the war was on we had ration tickets and we had so many for butter and so many for other things, and my cousins in Melbourne were in a boarding house.

The mother was a beauty consultant at Myers, and Isabel said to me "Mavis do you have any ration tickets you could swap with us, and we could give you some of our clothes?"

They had top positions and dressed beautifully, perhaps they only wore them once, I said "That'd suit me" because they were small people, they came from my father's side of the family, so they swapped their lovely clothes and I'd give them some ration tickets.

That was okay until somebody heard about this and two or three people in Wodonga couldn't make do on their butter ration tickets and they heard I was making butter and giving Isabel my tickets.

So they asked me to make butter.

Every night for months and months and months I made butter in my old butter churn to keep these people in butter.

I did that while the war was going.

They didn't dob me in, though it was a wonder someone didn't.

It was damned hard work. I was milking, helping Roy milk at the time and there I'd be slaving away at the blooming butter.

It wasn't easy, but every night there was butter made.

I think it was only about 1/6 a pound, in those days.

I can't suffer margarine although I tried and tried it. But there's nothing like real butter and real cream.

The cream I buy now is not cream in my book.

I always made my own soap too - I've only just given up making soap since Roy passed on and we don't kill our own meat and I don't get the fat. So I'm not making soap any more.