Sunday Original Song Challenge

A childhood event was the inspiration here. The idea for this song was initially different than what actually came out when I began writing, and it came in one day. Interesting how the writing process works, like the of writing a story that seems to take on a life of its own, sometimes it dictates what will be written despite your intention. I’m including the lyrics under the videos now, thanks to a suggestion from a follower.

Susan

Susan was new to the neighbourhood, we walked to school

Picking oranges from a grove marked for demolition

She had no mother, lived with her dad,

Grade five, California, 1967

He was never home until the end of the day

But Susan had her own key to the front door

And she wasn’t allowed to play down the street

I guess it was his way to see her safe and secure

I’d go to her house most day’s after school

We’d eat captain crunch and watch national velvet

Or turn the radio up loud and make up crazy dances

Doing our best to imitate Elvis

I remember a pool table stood where a dining table should be

And stacks of country albums in rows on the floor

I remember her dad and his short, black, shiny hair

And the cans of beer he bought from the corner liquor store

We started out as friends but for reasons I didn’t understand

She became cruel and condescending

I became the target of her hurtful remarks

By the time the school year was ending

By summertime a white moving van parked in front of her house on the road

And I saw men carry out the pool table, and boxes of everything they owned

I could see Susan in the passenger seat of the station wagon

Her dad beside her at the wheel

She never looked or waved at me standing, stared straight ahead

never let on how she feels about

Leaving another home, leaving another town,

leaving another school, leaving another friend

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Recovering Creative

I live on a tiny island on the Canadian west coast with about 300 of my neighbours. I am a Red Seal chef and certified baker (retired), an artist, an amateur photographer. I write, (unpublished so hesitate to call myself A Writer) sing, and can bang out some reasonable sounding chords on a guitar. And I grow a veggie garden. Older, wiser, and armed with insights and experience, I am on a conscience pursuit of reclaiming my creative life. I see it as a career change. Next level.

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