The young blokes would be out the back leaning on utes swigging on long necks.

These were bottles of beer and according to the standards of today they were warm, wrapped in newspaper for insulation.

The rest of the town was inside dressed in their finest, parents were twirling to the waltz or stomping out the Fox Trot.

A home-grown band of drums, piano and not much else was pounding out the rhythm on the stage..

Us kids were seated in a long line against one wall eyeing off the long trestles against the other wall groaning with food, waiting for supper to be called.

Welcome to our weatherboard town hall on a Saturday night.

It was known as the White Elephant, I was never sure why.

During one financial crisis, likely a drought, the government employed our farmer-fathers on labor schemes.

It was a way of keeping food on the table - you had to work for your relief money.

My Dad remembered teams of men painting long lines of guide posts along the highway.

He also remembers many, many gallons of white paint arrived in town for the painting of the town hall - he got sick of the sight of it.

There seemed to be always something on each weekend at the hall.

Mostly they were dances, or they could have been kitchen teas, wedding receptions or sporting celebrations.

During the winter I would would often stay over with mates in town after the footy, as our Mallee farm was miles away.

We would spend the day conjuring up schemes to sneak a gulp from someone's beer and basically stalked our 18-years-plus target during the day to buddy up.

Of it could be a quick dash out in the dark for a shared cigarette.

But my Mum had the same radar perfected by the other mums to prevent their kids sneaking out of the hall.

My Mum was famous for her sponge cakes which made her popular among my friends.

The kids were forced to follow the adults - they had first dibs on the supper.

It could only be described as torture as we watched plate after plate of our favourites disappear with the clinking of tea cups.

When it was finally our turn, we belted across the hall with wide eyes.

I was always chasing the little mushroom-looking pastry tarts, the pastry stalk was standing in some sort of custard which you swished around and ate.

I tried to find out many times who made them, with no success.

"Ladies, please bring a plate," the hand-written sign on the cafe inviting all to the dance read. Women's lib was yet to arrive.

All the women had their specialties.

I also liked the little meat paste triangle sandwiches, they were never in demand. Exactly why I had launched my scheme after long thought, there were heaps of them.

Sometimes were kids were forced to dance as well, with our sisters or cousins.

The night would always finish with the Hokey Pokey ... put your left foot in and wiggle it all about.

Some crazy committee came up with the idea of a children's debutante ball.

At least I wasn't partnered with a cousin but holding hands with girls was still firmly on the top 10 list of things to be avoided.

There was endless practices to attend at the hall.

Mum was beavering away in the sewing machine to make a little suit.

Everyone knew everyone else, and had done for generations.

Any strangers were treated with suspicion.

When some of the local girls had matured enough to attract attention at high school, they would lure blokes with P plates from outside the town happy to ply them with Stone's Green Ginger Wine.

These outsiders were watched carefully - unless they could play footy and might be convinced to sign up to the local club.

I remember one of the local girls, a neighbour, coming back after finishing boarding school and sharing a beer with the blokes out the back.

What a scandal for the times.

The town hall was a fortress of safety.

I remember being shocked when told the hall was being pulled down.

As I was when it was announced the footy changerooms were being dismantled, this was the place where many legends had been born.

After voting solidly conservative for 100 years, the town was rewarded with a grant for a sports pavilion.

It was made of brick and had change-rooms, a kitchen, meeting room and bar.

We had no hotel and it was our first bar, no-one bothered with the White Elephant any more.

It has become the community centre now.

I was moved to write about my home town's hall after reporting this week on the sale of two similar community halls in the south-east of South Australia.

Both disused and looking worse for wear, I was struck by the agent's description of one of them.

A country community had decided to take its old Monbulla Hall to public auction on Saturday, February 3, and give the proceeds to charity.

Monbulla is just outside Penola while about 60km to the south and just outside Mount Gambier, the Springs Hall is also for sale.

I see part of my job as chronicling changes to country life.

Churches, post offices, halls are being offered to tree changers as country populations decline.

The Monbulla hall, built in the 1950's, was said to have the best dance floor in the south-east.

That would have been a substantial boast back in its day.

The district's school has gone, there are enormous weeds splintering the tennis courts but once upon a time, Monbulla would have been heaving on a Saturday night.