Music & Vocals: Grace McDunnough
Lyrics: Salome Strangelove
CLICK TO LISTEN TO THIS SONG ON GRACE’S SOUNDCLOUD
She sold pecans off the Sixmile out of the back of a step-side Ford
Each bag a dollar and a quarter, another for just a little more
Her lank was weary with the mountain mist, her hair a long mass of knots
And in her grays eyes churned a tempest of better days left forget
When our car eased off of the shoulder, I was compelled by her lined face
But I was just a girl and couldn’t comprehend the fallen state of Grace.
She was a fixture in that sleepy autumn town that let her slip through all the cracks
No one asked and no one ever cared to know, so no one bothered to keep track
Yet each year we drove right by her and I’d hear her Smoky Mountain song
And each time my aging soul would recognize that more and more was wrong
Our family photos show magnolias and mimosa, they don’t bear a trace
But I have Kodak-colored memories of the fallen state of Grace
River birch and honey locust, did she get lost among those trees
Or did the world just spin her out of balance and drive her to her knees
Did she lie awake like I do now, stricken with a stranger’s grief
Was each waking day a misery, was her last breath a relief
Sometimes my dreams draw her silhouette, one that time just can’t erase
And all the questions still leave me sobbing for the fallen state of Grace
I was just a girl and could not comprehend but now I understand
The ones who trod up on the broken shores and get marooned upon the strand
The ones who tremble on the razor’s edge – who see the peril and the plight
The ones who struggle in every way, who have to dig down deep and fight
The ones who always feel a step behind, who just can’t keep the pace
Yes, those of us upon the precipice know too well the fallen state of Grace.
She sold pecans off the Sixmile out of the back of a step-side Ford
Each bag a dollar and a quarter, another for just a little more
(Additional Verse)
The atlas of what the mind remembers has its own key and compass rose
We don’t get to pave the highways or pick which way the rivers flow
Hand-written in our margins are the notes that bear the names
Of those who leave us shaking at the wheel and never feeling quite the same
I can’t remove her after all this time, she’s earned her sacred space
And so the story of my life spares a page about the fallen state of Grace