Of Galahs, Bush Poets and Flying Dogs...

'What a Galah' by John Murray

We are very grateful to Lightning Ridge Artist, John Murray, for permission to use the above image which is available as one of several 11.7cm x 20cm Greeting Cards. Please visit John's Gallery Online here:

http://johnmurrayart.com.au

At the Gulargambone Town Reunion Cap passed on to me the material you see below. It is hereby published in good faith.

The first offering is by the late Mr Ron Funnel of Coonamble:

The Old Combara Hall

Built early in the century, the wish of some old Combara-ites,

It was to be the haven, for many happy days and happy nights,

It was the place for meetings, greetings, a function or a fete,

And when a dance was mentioned, very few were ever late.

A warm welcome at the door, sawdust dressing on the floor,

For there was no discrimination, 'tween the wealthy and the poor,

Yes, everyone was welcome, everyone and all,

When 'ere there was a function, at the Old Combara Hall.

The means of transportation, oh, you never seen the likes,

They came by saddle-horse and sulkies, some even came on bikes,

To some it was the beginning of a long and lasting romance,

When young and old all got together, at Combara, for a dance.

The rhythm of the players, the players in the band,

Would be lost on the present generation, very few would understand,

The Waltzes and the Foxtrots, Pride of Erin, Bamdance too,

A Spot Dance or Monte Carlo, just to name a favourite few.

Of course there were Square dances, like the Lancers and Quadrilles,

And the dresses of the women, silks and satins, lace and frills,

They would trip the light fantastic, with n'er a trip or fall,

Do the ghosts of those happy dancers linger, in the Old Combara Hall?

Les Byrne and Mel Button, often Ollie Armstrong from Gular,

Would play the old piano, don't remember a guitar,

Weldon Crocker on his fiddle, Brod Crocker with his Sax,

Would keep sweet dance music flowing, very seldom did relax.

Now people came from miles around, just to hear Mick Butler sing,

And when all joined in a chorus, it would make the rafters ring,

Mostly Irish, mainly Irish, were the songs Mick Butler sung,

Oh, 'tis a pleasure to remember, the days when we were young.

A Little Bit of Heaven, Danny Boy, Kathleen Mavourneen,

When Irish Eyes are Smiling and I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,

A Long Way to Tipperary, Peggy O'Neill and Galway Bay,

'Tis true as is said in the line of a song, ''Twould steal your heart away.'

But one must give full credit, to the women, true women of the west,

Who would cater for all functions, home-cooked food of the very best,

Morning tea, always attractive, three-course lunch, two bob a head,

It is any wonder their fame, o'er a vast area was spread.

'Tis sad those good old days do fade, and cannot be repeated,

Do you, as I, with memories fond, feel just a little cheated?

We can't recapture those good old times, so we'll share with one and all,

Old friends, the joys, the pleasures we knew, at the Old Combara Hall

R. A. FUNNELL ©8-3-93.

Below:

Look at this wonderful old photograph from the 1930's, as Cap says:

Dick Knight was the mailman between Gular and Barradine, travelling the 54 miles to Barradine twice a week in a horse-drawn vehicle and he had to open and shut 56 gates. Great quantities of goods were delivered.

There is are reference in Cap's material to the travelling shows that used to visit Gulargambone. Here is the account of one such show from the 1950's, written by Mr Allan Duffy. It is my understanding that Mr Duffy used to write for the newspapers but not knowing the original source of the article and not knowing how to contact Mr Duffy or his family to gain permission to reprint this, I have published it anyway, with my undertaking that I will either remove it or give due credit should anyone contact me regarding this. L P King

Once upon a time in the West

 DUFFY

by Allan Duffy

Whenever I smile to myself, my wife usually says, "OK. What's so amusing'?" As if I could ever tell her. Or she says, "What?", as if I'd said something.

We were hightailing it down the Newell, cutting six hours off the Brisbane-Melbourne leg, homeward-bound from holidays in Noosa.

The signposts along the way were stirring pleasant memories of another era. Moree. A bit of a smirk ...

"What?"

"Nothing." Narrabri, Boggabri, Gunnedah...

"Tee hee hee."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Coonabarabran, Gilgandra, Dubbo...

I was grinning like a drain. Big Bill Bradley and I had cut a swathe through here with Bobby Tuit's Box-ing Troupe in the '50s, and I hadn't been back since.

Big Bill Bradley, the barber from Boolaroo, used to moonlight as a tent show wrestler when Boolaroo closed down for Christmas. It was the kind of town from which one tended to come, not a town to which one tended to go.

        Anyway, in the summer of '56 I went bush with Big Bill and the boxing troupe as a "gee" - A gee is a plant or stooge in the crowd.

Now, Big Bill had a face to stop a clock. His orange-red hair and beard were worn as stubble and his pale blue eyes were those of a killer.

Our modus operandi was simple. Bill would line up on the boards with the boxers who travelled with the troupe and I would plant myself in the crowd.

The boxers were small, willowy Aboriginal kids from humpy settlements on the outskirts of country towns.

They'd weigh in at about eight stone in a wringing wet overcoat with the pockets full of pennies.

Nice kids, they often fought their cousins and split the earnings so nobody got too badly hurt.

Big Bill towered over the boxers as they lined up in their silk gowns and shorts, hands taped and hair neatly combed.

He wore pink tights. In front of an audience, he was outrageous. He was too much for the bush. They hated him.

When Bobby Tuit introduced the line-up, he always left Big Bill 'til last. "A pound or two for a round or two," the showman would cry.

Boomatty-boomatty-boom went the drum and ding-ding-ding went the bell as each fighter was matched with a challenger.

The entertainrnent-starved country folk were packed shoulder-to-shoulder around the tent. They'd waited a year for this - the excitement was electric.

No Chief Little Wolf, Sands Brothers or Les Darey here, none of whom in any case had ever been within coo-ee of a bush tent show. What would you expect for six bob?

"Now, I know all you girls out there fancy Big Bill Bradley", Bobby Tuit would say to a chorus of shrill denials, "but I think I should warn you, he's not as nice as he looks."

Once he had the crowd eating out of his hand, he'd launch into his spiel.

"Here's the man that swam the Malacca Straits in leg-irons. The man the Americans won't let their pretty boys wrestle. The man that fought in three wars. Wee Waa, Mudgeewah and Budgeewn. Everybody's favourite.... Big Bill Bradlee, the Baaaaarber from Boolaroooo".

You could bear the boos in Mungindi.

Money would be offered to the enraged crowd who heckled and jeered as Big Bill postured and strutted up and down, taunting and challenging them.

Nobody was about to take up the offer. That's when I, the hero, would get the nod.

"I'll have a go!", I'd cry, to the delight of the crowd.

Bobby, of course, would pretend the offer came from a small terrified farmer, and after much foreplay would get me up on the boards.

"What do you do, son?" he would ask.

"I'm a timber cutter from Kempsey," or "I'm a shearer from Gilgandra," depending on where we were at the time.

He would tease the crowd by halving the offer, then offer me double or nothing if I stayed in the ring for two rounds.

I'd accept the latter amid shouts of "Don't trust 'em, son!"

Bill would refuse to shake hands, and the boos would be deafening.

The tent flaps would be thrown open, Bobby Tuit crying, "In yer go! Only six bob, Gents - four shillings, Ladies - and half price for kids!"

We'd wrestle to packed houses. I'd win every time and be disqualified for "dirty tactics".

This not only enraged the crowd but guaranteed a return match and another packed house.

The last match of the day I'd win and the crowd would go home happy. I could do no wrong in those towns after playing the giant-killer, and the locals were very kind. So were the farmers' daughters.

Big Bill, of course, couldn't leave the showground.

"What are you smiling at now'?" asked the wife.

"Nothing."

Again, I am at a loss as to the source of the photograph below or when it was taken. The photographer is obviously Mr Peter Lorimer and I think Cap said it was taken during a big wind storm in Quambone, I think, but I wouldn't swear to it. If anyone knows Mr Lorimer you might be so kind as to ask him to contact me.  Poor dog!!! L P King

The following poems by Mr Ron Funnel and Mr John Taylor were written in honour of Cap and he is as proud as punch of them!

LESLIE CHARLES SOLOMON LEMON

 CAP

Cap is a funny man

A man of wisdom too.

He runs a business in town

Of which he is the Prince renowned

His interests are extensive

From telling yarns, to horses

To football, golf and cricket,

With bowls and billards he is great,

But now his services are required

As full time coach and critic.

In his younger days the music it did stir him

On the floor with music loud,

His feet responded to the waltz

A glide a sway a step or two

How his partners loved to dance with Cap

As he gently swung them to and fro.

Yes Cap was the real dance and prance man

Now in his shop he sells the lot. From papers, bra's and knickers.

But men's gear is the thing he loves

From hats to boots and shirts galore

A salesman that's for sure is Cap

If he hasn't got the gear you want

He will set you up with something else

Now Sunday is a special day

The yarns are great but somewhat stretched.

The truth is seldom heard

As we learn the latest gossip

We purchase the Sunday paper and what ever else we need

Yes we salute you Cap our friend.

May you continue on for many years

To share your fun and wisdom

With your mates of old Gular.

 John Tayfor ©1994

Hey, I have to get in on the act too! One time I visited a little shop in Ipswich, Queensland which was run by a little old Jewish lady and it reminded me of Cap's Mercantile. I don't think it is there anymore, but here are my impressions of that shop - this is exactly what it was like! This one is from It all goes 'round L P King :

A LITTLE OLD-FASHIONED 

She startled me a little,

peering out from behind the over-sized counter, tiny and frail.

Brown birdie eyes beading at me from behind granny glasses,

golden rims glistening in the garish fluorescent light.

No smile, no hype, just a What can I help you with?

Powder blue and baby pink cashmere cardigans…

all precisely laid out, safe behind their glass casings.

Old-fashioned blouses and slips pinned to the wall,

frocks dotted around the room on antique dummies…

What tales they would tell, if only they could talk.

Mysterious brown paper-wrapped packages tied up with string,

all neatly stacked up on the highest shelf,

beckoned by overhead pullies stretching from way out back

and offering a journey to who knows where.

Cardigans come and go but stay the same.

Hemlines rise and fall as our mothers' breaths rise and fall.

Or so it seems, in this endless stream that never ceases to flow

or ebb along our measured patterns of life.

I rolled the tip of my shoe over the bare floorboards,

mesmerised, as I remembered a childhood Mercantile

and my Uncle Cap, ever so properly dressed,

serving in the Mens Department and smelling of Old Spice,

while in the Ladies Department my mother

chose pretty white hankies to embroider.

She cleared her throat, growing impatient with me,

an intruder into her world where I had no place.

I longed to tell her that I understood,

but somehow the words would not come.

And so, I merely smiled as I passed through the door

and out to where the noise of the traffic roared.

 © 2000 L P King