Davy, Davy, Davy

Like many people in my age group, I grew up watching The Monkees, and it wasn’t long before my heart pounded for Davy Jones.  It wasn’t that he was so sexy, really.  And he wasn’t my first childhood crush.  That belonged to Richard Beymer, who played Tony in the movie of West Side Story.  Oh, and to my cousin Ned, who, as a teenager, put up with my young-girl flirtations of running around him and trying my best to be annoying.

But as I grew into adulthood and moved out of the comfortable NY suburbs, I continued to get a thrill out of the likeable music this thrown-together band produced, and I watched endless reruns of their TV show with my young daughters.

It was hard not to like Davy.  He was plenty cute, and he always seemed to be having so much fun.  It may have  been mindless fun, but it had value as such.

Nearly a decade ago, The Monkees came to visit and perform in what I have, in adulthood, come to call my home town – Portland, Maine.  Someone I knew just happened to know someone who knew…well, you get the picture.  I ended up with a backstage pass to meet the band after the show.  I was thrilled.  Though I was a dark-haired, aging Mama, I felt like young Marcia Brady in the episode in which she tries to get Davy Jones to come play at her prom.

The show was great, and afterwards, not knowing what to expect, I went backstage.

Shuffling through the crowded area behind the Expo Building stage, I met one or two of the band members, briefly.  Then, I met Davy.  He stood just about my height, maybe slightly taller.  We shook hands, I mumbled something, and he was so kind – genuinely nice, smiling eyes, sincere.  There are some people you meet and you know something important about them almost instantly.  This was one such time.  He seemed totally unaffected.  Sweet, to use a corny term.  I mentioned I was a local writer and that maybe I would write a story about him and this visit.  This was at a time when life was pretty busy and I was just doing an occasional bit of writing.  He grabbed a piece of paper and pencil and wrote something down and handed it to me.

“If you do, send me a copy,” he said.

On the paper was an address, a P.O. box, as I recall.  I was thrilled.  Oh, yeah – and then he kissed me on the cheek.

After that, life moved along as usual.  One thing led to another – a sick parent, an overly busy life as a nurse and a mom, other things that got in the way of doing more than writing a few words of a story that never materialized.  Eventually, in another of my twice yearly mad cleaning frenzies, I tossed the paper out, as I recall.  I had moved on in my writing projects, and I no longer had an inspiration for writing this particular story.  But meeting him never completely left me.

On a recent visit with my stepson and his wife, we reminisced about bands of the past, old TV shows, and in particular, the Brady Bunch.  Davy Jones sprang to my mind and into the conversation.  I wondered – would I ever get to that story?  Was it possible that somewhere, I still had his mailing address?  Youthful thoughts about a crush had long since given way to realizing that Davy Jones was more than a celebrity.  He was a kind, lovely man, one anyone would be happy to have as a friend, with or without his particular, loveable kind of fame.

So today, as I heard he had died at 66, all I could remember was that timeless, smiling guy who had given me and so many others some good, light entertainment.

That, and the faint promise of a prom date.