Life’s lows tend to lodge forever in our memory. And their silver linings, too.
The sadness of Davy Jones’ passing yesterday at 66 years-young regresses me back to the age of 12 when I went to a Monkees concert. It was exciting and miserable all at the same time.
I’ve worn eyeglasses since age 9.
Days before the concert, when I was going through the critical process of deciding exactly what Davy would like me to wear I sat on my bed. Crunch. I got up. I had sat on my eyeglasses and busted them in half, right on the nose piece. I could have died on the spot! In those days there was no such thing as one-hour eyeglass stores. So I duct-taped the two pieces together.
I went to the concert with those duct-taped eyeglasses, but never took them out of my purse. Our (my Monkees-addicted sister and her equally crazed girlfriend in their Twiggy paper mini-dresses and me) seats were about a mile away from the concert stage. I screamed like all 25,000 other girls, but I couldn’t see a damn thing!
Fast forward to about five years ago, Davy Jones was appearing in concert, solo at Epcot’s International Flower & Garden Festival. (Stop laughing!) I was there, within an arm’s length of the miniscule (in comparison to that of four decades ago) stage. Along with a small crowd of baby boomers and their kids. When Davy came out, we women swooned. The kids pretty much sat still with blank faces; you could tell each was thinking “What the hell has gotten into my Mom?” It was an every-minute-was-worth-waiting-for experience.
Yesterday, Davy “took the last train to Clarksville.”
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