Snapshot: In Uncle Harry's garden
I'm the one in pink, and next to me is my three-year-old sister, Helen. Taking us for a ride in his wheelbarrow is our grandmother's brother, Harry Osborn. It is the summer of 1973 and we are in Harry's garden in Kelvedon, Essex.
This is Harry as I remember him: the rolled up shirtsleeves and tanned arms of a gardener and the smile of a genial man who called everyone "mate". He is wearing a tank top in his favourite shade of green. It is the exact same colour as his wheelbarrow, his garden fence and his Austin van, which he used in his job as a plumber. Harry was good with his hands. The son of a master builder, he built his own bungalow. He also made things – including this wheelbarrow by the look of it – in his big, dark shed, which had too many cobwebs for my sister and me to do much more than poke our noses round the door.
This wheelbarrow ride gave my sister and me our first inkling that there were fun times to be had in Harry's vast wonderland of a garden. Each visit presented us with a new and thrilling experience. On one occasion, we found two goats grazing in the orchard, and, on another, we came across a run full of rabbits. My headstrong sister disliked being told that she should not touch the animals. As soon as we were alone, she stretched out her hand to a goat and received a butt in the stomach. The rabbit that she picked up had a better temperament, fortunately. My sister flouted rules (which surely were made by my parents and not by our gentle, fun-loving great-uncle) while I took advantage of rules that had not been made, taking running jumps in an effort to clear Uncle Harry's king-sized flowerbeds.
Harry was devoted to his wheelchair-bound wife, Iris, who had brittle bones. They did not have any children. When Iris died, Harry decided to sell up, but before he moved out of the bungalow, he invited my sister and me to choose something from his house for our very own. My sister picked the doll that covered the toilet roll, while I chose a brass nutcracker in the shape of a dog, which Harry was using as a doorstop.
Uncle Harry died eight years after this picture was taken. It was only later that I learned of his respected status in Kelvedon. He had been head of the Sunday school, chairman of the parish council and a recipient of the British empire medal. I also discovered that another pair of sisters (my mother and my aunt) had roamed Harry's garden, years before us.
The garden is all but gone now. The home of the master builder's son passed through the hands of another builder who erected houses on the one-acre plot. The bungalow remains, but its garden is heartbreakingly small. I still have my memories, though – and my brass dog. Anna Dale
Playlist: Between rock and a hard place
Black Betty by Ram Jam
"Whoa Black Betty, bam-a-lam/Whoa Black Betty, bam-a-lam/Black Betty had a child/the damn thing gone wild" I was having a whale of a time, young and carefree and at college, totally in love with the rock music of the 70s and totally in love with my boyfriend. My nickname was Biddy and his surname was Black; his friends called me Biddy Black. We frequented the Pound music club at the back of the city hall in Belfast. These were the classic rock days of 1976 and 1977 before punk. We lived and breathed music.
The Troubles were at their peak, and getting in and out of the city centre was difficult. We lived with it because at 18 all we wanted was life, love and music – we didn't care much about anything else.
I was a few months gone before I realised I was pregnant. There were no pregnancy-testing kits in those days, and it took a lot of courage to present yourself to the family GP. Month after month I had put off telling myself that my period was late. The baby was due in December. It was August when I found out for sure. Being a pregnant 18-year-old girl from a strict Catholic family wasn't a good place to be in. I had been successful in my studies and my future looked good without the responsibility of a baby. Although those around me worried and fretted for the future, I still felt alive and carefree and felt a sense that everything would turn out right.
It was the beginning of September and I turned on the radio – Ram Jam thrashed out. I smiled. It sounded like they were singing about me. There was much energy in that song, it made me feel good and touched my teenage rebelliousness. I wanted to put two fingers up to the world and shout that I was doing what I wanted to do.
I had a sweet baby boy in December who did a good job of calming me down throughout the following years. And that steady boyfriend that I had, after 32 years of marriage, I'm still totally in love with him. Brigid Black
We love to eat: Dad's fancy eggs
Ingredients for 12 fancy eggs
6 eggs
Mayonnaise
Salt
Pepper
Cayenne pepper
Boil the eggs and when cool, peel them from their shells. Slice the eggs in half and scoop the yolk out into a bowl. Mix the yolk with mayonnaise and some salt and pepper. Scoop the yolk mix into the empty egg whites. Sprinkle with a touch of cayenne pepper.
Both my parents cook well but my dad has always added a touch of magic in the kitchen. He'd make these stuffed eggs occasionally, and to my sister and me they were the absolute height of sophistication to our primary school selves. Many years later, both of my parents were made redundant within six months of each other. Times were really tough, and for five years money was tight and tensions were high. We became adept at turning every penny over before spending it and making budget-conscious meals.
Every so often, though, Dad would go into the kitchen on a Sunday night and make us a plate of snacks that would consist of these fancy eggs. We'd sit around chatting and eating our eggs, and for a while the worry was broken. I'll always remember how Dad's fancy eggs still tasted like luxury, even in the middle of some very bleak years. They will always count very highly on my list of soul foods. Claire Mason
We'd love to hear your stories
We will pay £25 for every Letter to, Playlist, Make do and mend, Snapshot or We love to eat we publish. Write to Family Life, The Guardian, Kings Place, 90 York Way, London N1 9GU or email family@theguardian.com. Please include your address and phone number