By the end of the first three measures of The Monkees theme song, my sister, the girls in our neighborhood and I would be glued to the tube for the next thirty minutes. Watching The Monkees was a weekly ritual for us.
While Davy Jones and the other Monkees never knew it, the neighborhood girls, my sister and I learned to dance by watching their show and listening to their music. In my aunt’s finished basement with her new state-of-the-art Fisher stereo console, we girls had our own dance studio where we practiced and laughed and then practiced harder. I almost had that funky dance nailed that Davy did to “Daydream Believer.” But not quite.
Davy Jones provided us, at the tender ages of 12 and 13, with our first crush. Who could have been more wholesome than Davy? Well-dressed, clean-shaven and a nice haircut, no mother could have objected. Even better, he couldn’t get closer to us than the TV set. But things were simpler then. For my friends and me and for Davy.
Davy Jones, rest in peace. This daydream believer just may dance today before I take the last train to Clarksville, thanks to you.
TO GOD BE THE GLORY
Cynthia Howerter © 2012Read More