The news just reported that Davy Jones died this morning, and it made me more than a little sad. Before there was the Jonas Brothers or Justin Bieber, there was The Monkees. They were my must see TV for a few years and I, like many young girls then, developed a crush on Davy. My mother once gave up a Friday night, and much of her hearing, to take my sister and me to one of their concerts.
I ran into him a few years ago at Bradley Airport in Hartford, Connecticut. He had appeared at Foxwoods Casino and was flying home to Florida, while I was on my way to Orlando. He was sitting in a restaurant where I had gone to get a coffee. I noticed that some folks had stopped by his table to say hello. I normally wouldn’t have bothered him, or any other famous person, but, from what I could see, he wasn’t acting as if the attention was bothersome. I told him about my junior high school girl adoration for him and the whole band, and about the sacrifice my mother had made to indulge me. He laughed and we talked a bit about things like horses and getting older. Then he signed the back of one of my luggage claim tickets. I still have it, among my treasures, and today I’ll take it out and play “Daydream Believer” while I go about my day.