ME AND BOBBY McGEE by JANIS JOPLIN. Story by Mary Pomfret.
Each night of our five -night derailment, when the hot sun went down, weād go and sit on the still-warm tracks with a crazed old railway fettler who had befriended us.
Each night of our five -night derailment, when the hot sun went down, weād go and sit on the still-warm tracks with a crazed old railway fettler who had befriended us.
Mum was a practical woman. She expressed her love through deeds. Tender words and demonstrative affection werenāt her strong suit. Particularly at home.
Mum was fiddling with the dial, but the glitchy radio was not getting her urgencyāpure static.
Itād be almost another year of blasting it out on repeat though til the song actually got into my bones, got in there so deeply, that it took me by the hand and transported me into my new life.
I remember one Bible belter with a velveteen voice telling us: āJesus doesnāt need your money, but if Iām going to spread his word, I sure doā.
But now I was almost nine years at the plant, and that novel was in a box in the closet, kept company by two others Iād gone on to write. The plant had become quicksand.
Cars may come and go but some you never forget.
If you listened hard enough, you could almost hear the echoes of Grace Slick wailing her backup vocals in her white tasseled top and her funked out hair.
The wash of sea set a score, emanating from the base of high cliffs. I hoisted a pack and travel guitar, and made my way toward town.
Although mine was a record and dadās was a tape, there was no mistaking a shift in the axis that staked our two worlds.