The Kelly's Turning
unknown
I learned this song from the singing of John Rasmussen. I have never heard anyone else sing it and have been unable to trace its origins.
We're meetin' by the riggin'
For the word has passed around
We'll drink our spree on Texas tea
For the drills are goin' down
Men roll in from everywhere
France and England, too
There's boomers and boll weevils
That make up the drillin' crew
Chorus
The Kelly's turnin'
The drill rods churnin'
The metal's burnin' as she breaks the hard rock core
Rock voices grumblin'
The diesel's rumblin'
The Kelly fumblin' with the key to Satan's door.
There's Hank and Mac and Paddy
From across the world they've come
With Czechs and Swedes, all kids o' breeds
They share a common bond
It's music in the air to men
Following the call
When high upon the Christmas tree
They hear the driller call
Chorus
Devil's getting' angry
There's a rumblin' in the well
For men are cruel who steal the fuel
That feeds the fires of hell
His heart is big and black as soot
And darker is his soul
And when he cries, he fills the skies
With tears as black as coal
Chorus
So now the drilling's ended
We'll pack our things and go
We've drilled a million barrels
From ten thousand feet below
We're bound for eastern cities
Our hard-earned cash to spend
On girls and grog and fancy prog
'Til the call goes out again
Chorus
Mum, the Mechanic's Assistant
Dad fancied himself as a mechanic and applied himself to resolving any problems of motorcycle or motorcar. Sometimes, he needed Mum’s help. My memories may not be accurate but you’ll get the gist.
Mum and the kids were at the shopping centre on Route 1 where the Sears department store was. When it came time to leave, the car wouldn’t start. Mum phoned Dad – in those days she had to go looking for a pay phone – and he came along on his motorcycle. He got the car started but it apparently required nursing because he took the wheel and Mum hopped on the motorbike.
It must have been summer because Mum was wearing a shirtwaist dress with no coat. She would have been wearing heels as well. She took off in front of the car, her skirt billowing. For some reason, she glanced down at the bike and her glasses slipped down her nose. I remember her pushing them back into place by some contortion of her left arm and shoulder without letting go of the handlebars.
This is my mother with Dion. She often wore her hair in a single braid which hung over her shoulder.
I’m a motorcycle rider, and on most of the bikes I’ve ridden, it’s easy enough to take your left hand off the handlebar while cruising along. I suppose that wasn’t the case on the old Harley.
Another memory I have concerns the Cadillac convertible. In my memory, the roof was down and the hood was in the back seat. My mother was perched on the front quarter panel drip-feeding the carburettor as Dad drove the car.
When I asked my mother about this not long before she died, she corroborated my memory but insisted she was driving and Dad was doing the drip-feed. Either way, it was kind of crazy.
