Connie Francis Quotes

From morning until sunset — and sometimes by moonlight — the surfer dudes ride waves onto shore worried about nothing more than impressing the gorgeous girls watching them. Sometimes those bikini-clad California sweethearts let a boy get to second base to a romantic Leslie Gore or Connie Francis song. If she's really in-love, and trusts him not to tell his buddies, she'll let him round third and wave him home. When that happens, it usually isn't long before Nautica is all abuzz about an impending beach wedding.

Fallin" I got the feelin I'm fallin' Like a star up in the blue Like I was fallin' off Niagara In a paddle boat canoe I got the feelin' I'm a fallin' And it's all because of you Like I was walkin' on a tight rope Swingin' in the breeze And though I tried to keep my balance When I weaken in my knees I got the feelin' I'm a fallin' Lover, help me please Like a leaf falls from the branch Like a rock from an avalanche Like the rain on a stormy day I never thought I'd fall this way I thought that love could never touch me Yeah, I was ridin' high And then my ivory tower toppled And I tumbled from the sky I got the feelin' that I'm fallin' And you're the reason why Like a life that he married for Like the walls of Jericho Like Delilah's holy town And Samson tore it down I thought that love could never touch me Yeah, I was ridin' high And then my ivory tower toppled And I tumbled from the sky I got the feelin' that I'm fallin' And you're the reason why And you're the reason why And you're the reason why And you're the reason why

took my parents for granted, and my nurse was simply warmth, sugar biscuits, hot milk and safety to me. Connie was the first human being outside myself to whom my heart flew out. She was about my own size and wore a blue cashmere frock which, as was usual for baby girls in those days, came down to her feet. Her hair, which was yellow and like the down on a chicken, was cut short like a boy’s, and she had white button boots on her tiny feet. We were both supplied by nurse’s sister with a tin mug and a spoon, and I, copying Connie, walked round and round and round under the big kitchen table, rattling the spoon in the mug. It is difficult to describe the joy of that occasion. From where we stumped round under the table I could see the feet of Rose Francis and her sister pushed into cosy bedroom slippers and stretched out in front of a glowing fire in the kitchen range: I could see the bottom of their big white aprons, and their balls of wool (for they were evidently knitting) rolling down onto the floor from their laps from time to time, to be chased by a kitten who was playing in the hearth. But the superb thing was Connie herself, her fluff of canary hair, her sky-blue dress, her white boots, her odd staggering yet rhythmic gait, and the sound of the spoon rattling in her tin cup. I think that was the one and only time that I ever saw Connie, but I have never forgotten her, and the odd piercing joy of my first conscious awareness of what was, to me at all events, the sheer loveliness of another human being.