Brae Grove, Nunawading is a quiet suburban street with a hill at each end, the ideal road for a ten-year-old kid to gather up speed on his billy cart. There were no prizes for good looking billy carts, and our billy carts were practical, a minimalist effort made from whatever materials we could scrounge.
My brother was ingenious when it came to making the big billy carts. He made a billy cart from a crate box, and it would hold six of us kids. One day it was fully loaded, hurtling down the footpath, when it hit a raised piece of concrete and stopped instantly. The momentum of the six of us continued forward, and the billy cart tipped over, sprawling us across the footpath. There were scrapes, bumps and blood lips, merely flesh wounds. The big billy cart was deemed too dangerous, and our mother made my brother dismantle it.
Living in my childhood street was a lot of fun. We had no shortage of things to do. Billy carts, cricket, footy, and stunts on our bikes were commonplace. The street was our playground, the neighbourhood kids were the team, and there were very few rules. We were free to explore and experiment, and it was a great time to be a kid.