Thursday, March 1, 2012
I'm still a believer
It's weird when your childhood stars die--it's just a brutal reminder that they, and me, are getting older. And that hurts--a lot. In my mind's eye, I'm eternally that kid singing along with my Partridge Family albums and staring at my David Cassidy poster. Seems like yesterday I was hanging in the basement with my cousins, roller skating and debating who's cuter--David Cassidy or Bobby Sherman. My cousin, Mary, was gaga over Bobby--he didn't do much for me.
I still see myself as that kid. And it feels like yesterday--although my body tells me otherwise.
I sat in traffic, listening to Davy belting out "Daydream Believer" on the car radio and I felt bad. Really bad. It's hard to let go of your youth, you know? It's hard to hear that he was gone at 66--"old" to the kid in me, "young" to the adult that I am. See, I'm closer to 66 than I am to 8, unfortunately, and that is the difficult part of the news.
You had to see me trying to coax the memories of my younger co-workers when they stared at me with blank eyes at the news that Davy Jones had died. "You know, The Monkees?" "Daydream Believer??" "Hey, hey, we're the Monkees??" Sigh. "Oh, I know! Remember when he went to the dance with Marcia Brady???!" (cricket. cricket.)
Nobody had a clue.
And it's that quick that our teeny-bopper crushes disappear and you suddenly feel very, very old. You'd swear I was talking about Lawrence Welk. Sheesh.
I guess I just need to mourn Davy Jones for a bit. And along with that, I'm gonna mourn those memories of skating on the concrete floor of my cousin's basement. I'm gonna mourn my old record player and my Patridge Family albums that are all scratchy. And my old metal roller skates with the lost skate key. I mourn the Donny Osmond of back-in-the-day and David Cassidy who rocked a velvet pant suit.
And I mourn little me. Young me. And the days and era I cannot recapture.
Goodbye, Davy. Thanks for the daydreams.