Ah, June is now merely a day away. When I think of June, I think of my childhood neighbor about whom I wrote the following lyric:
I watch her from across the way,
wondrin’ what makes her …
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Ah, June is now merely a day away. When I think of June, I think of my childhood neighbor about whom I wrote the following lyric:
I watch her from across the way,
wondrin’ what makes her come undone
As she shakes her fist at the pouring rain
and curses at absolutely no one
Yet there must be someone whom she sees
that comes and goes within her lonely war
I could offer up some sympathy
Instead I turn around and shut the door
June, June, June
My looney tune June
Why is your life ruled by the moon?
June, June, June
Hopefully soon
You will find peace my beautiful June
Standing in my doorway all at once
She takes a swing, I dip my head
She says I stole her lipstick red
and for that so-called crime she wants me dead
June, June, June
My looney tune June
Do you recall swiping my silver spoon?
June, June, June
Maybe real soon
You’ll give it back my darling June
In her face there’s a trace of true beauty there
of a girl anyone could adore
Too bad for her life’s been so unfair
and her lipstick’s right here in my drawer
June, June, June
My looney tune June
Now ain’t this one sweet afternoon?
June, June, June
Promise me soon
There will be peace between you and me, June
OK, some artistic license was applied. June was actually only six years-old and so was I. It was her mother (whose name I never knew) that was, at the time, mentally ill and so described in this lyric.
In the early sixties, I believe this type of illness went largely unnoticed except by neighbors. So here’s what really happened:
June and I were playmates who lived across the street from each other. June’s house was terribly unkempt and smelled in some corners like urine. After only one visit, my mother insisted on June coming to our house instead of me going there.
Nothing was ever said or implied about the mental illness. One day, June’s disheveled mother appeared at our door accusing me of stealing her lipstick and demanding its return.
My mother, instead of talking to me or defending me, assumed that I was guilty and shot me an awful look, one I had never seen before and that frightened me to death.
At first, I lied and said I didn’t have the lipstick to which my mother shot an even fiercer look. My lip started to tremble; somehow I knew that speaking would be futile.
Neither of these adults would believe the truth, that June had given me the lipstick. Frustrated, I burst into tears, which only made me look guilty. I just stood there unmoving balling my eyes out. Finally my mother said, go get the lipstick.
I ran to retrieve the golden tube from deep within my treasure drawer. It was cool to the touch. One last time, I uncapped it, swiveled the bottom turn screw and released the deep coral-colored stick.
Putting my nose to it, I inhaled deeply. It was the cold-creamy aroma I loved the most. I never actually used it.
Sobbing more about not being able to express the truth than keeping the lipstick, I handed it over to June’s mother, who then huffed, turned on her heels and walked away.
Without another word, my mother closed the door and went back to the kitchen. I continued to cry until there were no more tears.
I now realize that June had to protect herself and when confronted about the missing lipstick probably told her mother that I had taken it.
I never saw June again, but her mother continued to rage at the rain until the day she was taken away. June was placed with relatives, and the house was mowed down to make way for a pizza parlor.
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