Old Paint
trad
I don’t remember learning this song, it was just always there. Linda Rondstadt released a version of it in 1977 but I certainly knew it from the 1950s. Perhaps it turned up on The Grand Ole Oprey or in cowboy movies. It’s a lovely cowboy waltz.
I ride an old paint, I lead an old dan
I'm goin' to Montana to throw the hoolihan
They feed ‘em in the coulees, they water in the draw
Their tails are all matted, their backs are all raw
Ride around little dogies, ride around slow
The Fiery and Snuffy are raring to go
Old Bill Jones had a daughter and a son
One went to Denver the other went wrong
His wife she died in a poolroom fight
But still he keeps singing from morning till night
Ride around little dogies, ride around slow
The Fiery and Snuffy are raring to go
When I die take my saddle down from the wall
Throw it my pony, lead him out of the stall
Tie my bones on his back, turn our faces to the west
And we'll ride the prairie that we love the best
Ride around little dogies, ride around slow
The Fiery and Snuffy are raring to go
School in a Strange Land
I never really settled into school in Australia.
When we first arrived in Melbourne, we stayed at the Maribyrnong migrant hostel. The accommodation was two Nissan huts, unlined corrugated iron, with four beds and a single electric heater. We arrived in July and it was freezing!
Micki and I were enrolled at Maribyrnong High School. Mum had to acquire uniforms for us before we could start. That was a strange concept. Classrooms held about twenty double desks, so you were forced to sit next to a total stranger. Students talked a lot while the teacher was talking! I was disgusted.
The French teacher, a young woman called Miss Prendergast, corrected me for pronouncing the t in il est une heure. I had been learning French since I was seven or eight, but apparently the rest of the class hadn’t been initiated into the ways of the liaison.
My Belgian grandfather, pictured here with my grandmother, was responsible for this humiliating experience. He had been brought up speaking French and Flemish, and would have little conversations in French with me from about the age of 8. I don’t blame him for the humiliation I felt. In fact, part of me felt a little superior because I knew I was correct.
Home Economics was compulsory. I thought it very strange to be doing at school something I did at home with my mother. I remember that in my first class we had to make pasties. I didn’t even know what a pasty was, so I had no idea what end product I was aiming for. I don’t remember the teacher making any effort to find out anything about me. None of the teachers did.
The maths teacher just thought I was stupid because I had trouble adding up the cost of a shopping list, done in pounds, shillings and pence. There was no effort to explain the system to me. Believe it or not, his name was Mr Inch. A mere three months later, I had a Saturday morning job adding up the weekly accounts at Crump’s Dairy.
I lasted two weeks, then refused to continue. This resulted in the Truant Officer paying us a visit. My parents weren’t home when he arrived, so I was happy to talk to him and explain that I wasn’t getting along very well, and anyway, we would be moving elsewhere soon, and I was making better use of my time by minding younger children and helping with the laundry. He stayed until my mother came back, but was satisfied with my explanation. I think he even commented to my mother on how well I had spoken to him.
We did move in a couple of weeks, to Surrey Hills on the other side of town. Although our nearest school was Canterbury Girls’ High School, we initially went to Balwyn High. This only lasted for a single term before the year ended. I did play flute in the school’s musical production, and earned a compliment from Mr Peters, one of the senior teachers. Apart from that, it was a pretty forgettable experience.
