They’re American, naturally. We love our Kerosene. Still blows my mind that jet fuel is kerosene and not the much more flammable gasoline.

Growing up, we had it around for all kinds of things, mostly oil lamps and starting fires. Only, we didn’t call it kerosene, we called it coal oil. At least, I think that’s what we were saying – being mush-mouthed Tennesseans, we actually said colall.

There’s a sad story I heard about the old-time classic Little Maggie. Fiddler Tommy Jarrell said around 1915 his cousin was trying to revive a dying fire and had an accident with the kerosene.

They put Jullie to bed right away–her whole body was burned up to her chin, and at first she cried in pain but after a while she didn’t feel anything at all. That evening as she was laying there she asked me to get my banjo and sing “Little Maggie” for her. That was the only thing she wanted to hear–it had just recently come around and everyone seemed to take to it. I expect I played it the best I ever had in my life, with the most feeling, anyway. It seemed to comfort her and pick up her spirits a little, but by the following morning she was dead.

Okay, now I’m sad. Stupid kerosine.