Last year Logan Village celebrated 150 years of white settlement. This year, it was decided to keep that spirit alive, and have another heritage festival. Just one day, Sunday 14th September...last Sunday.

I played quite a large role last year, being the guest speaker at the Heritage Dinner at the local hotel. During proceedings, my second book about Logan Village was launched by the Federal Member. The book, titled 'Knee Deep in Logan Village' is a trilogy, written in the voices of my grandmother, my father and myself. It is about life as it was lived in those eras.

My grandmother, who lived till she was 98, and to whom I listened avidly both as a child and an adult, tells of her first twelve years in Schleswig-Holstein, during which the family lost three members in a month to diphtheria; and her early years in Australia; settling with her parents at Buccan and meeting her future husband; giving birth during the night, then having to get up and skin a calf the next morning; of learning from her children how to read and write; and the hardships and pleasures endured during her life on the dairy farm.

My father recounts his first ten years at Chambers Flat, on the property settled by his grandfather in 1863; the move to Buccan when his maternal grandfather became mortally ill; the Light Horse Army Reserve and meeting Agatha; the flood; the depression; becoming the local Councillor for Waterford; building the Logan Village Hall; and the vicissitudes of dairy farming on unresponsive land in difficult times.

I speak of my childhood at Buccan, walking barefoot five kilometres to school at Logan Village; Marty; our sole teacher Mr Brown; the hidings with the black razor strop that ensued when we disobeyed our fearful mother and risked our lives adventuring with Marty; the dances in the hall; Dooley, my unkempt dog who saved my life when I was three; and the six cuts of the cane for swearing at school.

The first book that I wrote about life in Logan Village is now studied at the school and by the book club. I am quoted often. At the festival on Sunday, there were excerpts from' Barefoot in Logan Village' dotted around the several acres of Village Green whereon the festival was held.

I was given one half of the verandah on the Western side of the museum. This cottage was once the fettler’s home at Buccan; I remember the house well, just across the road from the Buccan siding, where the train and railmotor would stop if necessary. On the other half sat a very talented musician and vocalist who played his great organ and sang all the old songs that my parents used to sing in our Chevvy tourer on the way home from an annual trip to Brisbane. Those who were holding a sausage sizzle on the lawn nearby sang along with us. I displayed my three books, book signing when called upon.

There were many stalls selling arts and crafts...and Devonshire teas. There was music everywhere. The old school that my father, grandfather and I attended stood proud in the midst of the throng. The old schoolmaster’s residence that is now a thriving library, and several historic cottages used for sale of arts and crafts, teas, and museum purposes are now surrounded by landscaped gardens and walks that are a credit to the volunteers who developed them from the council-designated design.

The Commemorative Wall built from huge sandstone blocks (retrieved from the Story property after a recent flood) that had once been part of a building used to house Kanakas in transit to Townsvale (at Veresdale) has been rebuilt with an appropriate explanatory plaque.

At the end of the day, stall holders packed up and left the Village Green. I drove around the corner where once my grandparents lived in their lovely home Birkenfelde; past the green depression in the brown field that signified where Grandad’s duck pond was; met the main road at the Pub corner and looked fleetingly at the Forest of Memories across the road.

These imposing structures were installed by Logan Council to commemorate last year’s celebrations. The illuminated picture panels were taken in the main from my books, and are predominantly of my family, the reason being that my mother was one of the few who owned a Box Brownie camera, it being gained by default when the measly monthly cream cheque arrived and my disgusted father threw it to my mother, saying she could have the b.... thing, that we could starve for all he cared!

And it is my hard-working, caring father who looks at me from the panel facing the main road. He is in his Light Horse uniform, astride his Indian motorbike, a wide smile on his face. He is happy, newly-wed and times were buoyant. I salute you, Lieutenant Harry Wendt, and all those who helped make the interesting, historical place that Logan Village is today!