Pre-Teen Idols and Other Stuff

Today is the ninth anniversary of my dad’s death. It’s kind of hard to wrap my head around that because I can’t believe nine years has passed since that sad day. 

But thinking about my dad always brings up fond memories of my childhood growing up in Alliance.

 

When people around my age wax nostalgic about their childhoods having had the freedom in the summers to ride their bikes, play in and around their neighborhoods and hang out with their friends with little to no adult supervision (other than to be home at a precise time for dinner), I clearly remember those days as well. Of course, I’m probably putting a sepia-toned tint on the memories because I’m sure my mother knew where we were and what we were doing more than I recall.

 

But it was a good time to grow, to play and to dream.

 

Some of the fun memories I have as a girl were playing in either my basement or my next-door neighbor, Michelle’s basement. We’d create scenarios where we were planning to marry our pre-teen idols. At one point, it was someone in the Monkees.

 

Even though my favorite was Davy Jones, Michelle usually “called him” first. (Calling things – chairs, TV stars, window seat in the car so you didn’t get stuck in the middle – were a big thing in the ‘60s and ‘70s.) But anyway, if I didn’t call Davy first, I picked my second favorite and the next cutest Monkee, Mickey Dolenz.

 

Years later, I was searching for something in the basement and came across a couple of moving boxes decorated with crayons and markers that were our “homes” with Davy and Mickey. Yeesh.

 

After our Monkees phase, and before my undying crush on David Cassidy of the Partridge Family, my pre-teen little heart was captured by Bobby Sherman. I faithfully watched “Here Come the Brides,” which ran from 1968-1970. I don’t really remember any of the episodes, other than I recall that David Soul was also on the show. And Bridget…someone…whose hairstyle fascinated me. I even attempted the corkscrew curls a time or two when Michelle’s mom taught me how to use strips of cloth from a pillowcase to make the curls.

 

Fortunately, she must have let me keep the cloth because there was no way my own mom would let me cut up a pillowcase for my new hairstyle.

 

When Bobby’s big hit, “Julie, Do Ya Love Me” was released in 1970, we sat around the radio (or record player if any of us were flush enough to be able to afford the record), and belted out the words right along with him. Not well, mind you. But volume was seemingly as important as being able to carry a tune. Well, it was important enough – until our mothers told us to keep it down.

 

I read last night that Bobby Sherman died yesterday at 81. I haven’t thought about him in years, but the news still made me a little sad.

 

I do remember reading at some point that he was an EMT, and I thought it was pretty cool that he could transition from teen idol to a career that “regular folk” might choose – and still be happy not being in the spotlight.

 

When I look at photos or old videos on YouTube of all these teen idols, I’m struck by the innocence of it all. No wonder it was safe for little girls to have crushes on these adult men. They had shaggy hair – but they weren’t over-the-top with muttonchop sideburns and beards and mustaches. Most of them did not have hairy chests. I imagine as an 11-year-old, I would have thought a hairy chest was “icky.”

 

So they seemed safe. I have no idea what my parents thought of these infatuations, but I don’t recall them keeping me from watching the Monkees, or the Partridge Family or Here Come the Brides.

 

Sadly, all these teen idols are now gone. Davy Jones in 2012, David Cassidy in 2017, and now Bobby Sherman in 2025.

 

It could make a person pretty despondent thinking about all the losses we face as we age and time goes on. But this is life. It moves with or without us. And as I’m doing in this blog, I’m trying to remember the fun memories these people brought me. Like my dad. And Bobby Sherman.

 

Although…I would never try to compare my dad with Bobby Sherman. My dad didn’t have a lot of hair, for one thing. And he couldn’t sing. So there’s that. But he was an amazing presence in my life. And he was way more significant in my life than Bobby Sherman was. (Which would, frankly, be a little scary if he wasn’t.)

 

I think of you Dad, always, with lots of love. But I’ll probably be having a hard time getting the song, “Julie, Do Ya Love Me” out of my head today.

Rest in Peace, Bobby Sherman. Thank you for the memories.

Until next time, my friends...

Memories and Grief - Some Happy, Some Sad

Way back in 2019 Vince and I attended a charity event and, since we were all gussied up, Vince asked someone take our picture. It was a wonderful, memorable evening.

 

Back in 2019, we didn’t know that in a few months’ time, we would be isolated because of a thing called Covid. We didn’t know we would eventually catch the virus ourselves.

 

We didn’t know that a few months after that, Vince would be gone.

 

So we didn’t know that we needed to celebrate each moment with smiles and photos so that five years later I could look back and remember the fun we had.

 

Actually, though, that’s what Vince always did – he documented all the moments, big and small. And because he did, I have tangible proof of my happy life with him, even though it was only thirteen short years.

 

Recently, that photo came up in my memories on Facebook, so I had to repost it. Lots of people posted kind comments and there were more than 140 “likes.”

 

So I started looking at the names of friends and family who liked it. And, as I was scrolling down the list, I became teary-eyed.

 

Because all those people were telling me that they care. About me. About Vince. And they were letting me know it was okay to post that photo.

 

That even though we are approaching the three-year mark since he has been gone, my friends and family understand that it’s okay to remember him. Three years seems like so long ago, but – to me – it also seems like it happened yesterday.

 

For some who haven’t lost anyone significant in their lives, it may be difficult to understand that grief never goes away. That it sometimes softens with time. And it’s perhaps not as paralyzing as it was in the beginning. But that those feelings of grief will come and go – probably forever.

 

That the person who grieves might go on with life as if nothing is wrong – and if you ask them how they are, they will invariably respond, “fine,” but that may be the furthest from the truth.

 

Or maybe they are fine. (Grief can be confusing!)

 

Sometimes it only takes a scent of the cologne they wore, or their favorite meal printed on a menu to bring the grief back.

 

Or it may be a photo of a happy occasion that does it.

 

But most people who are grieving are not broken. We are repairing our shattered hearts and going on as our loved ones would want us to. We have good days and bad days, like everyone else.

 

Some people are not okay with grief. With allowing a person to express their memories or their sadness. Or their joy over a funny memory. They don’t want anyone to bring up the name of the person who passed.

 

I ask, “Why?”

 

Why is it so uncomfortable? Are they afraid the person who is mourning will burst into uncontrollable tears?

 

And to that, I ask, “So what?”

 

What’s the worst that will happen? Maybe they need that cathartic cry and will feel better when they’re done. If someone viewing such a display is uncomfortable, just grab some tissues, hand them to the person crying and step back.

 

Chances are, if a memory is brought up about a deceased loved one, the person grieving will latch onto that memory. We love hearing their name. We love hearing stories about them. What better way to honor their life by remembering them?

 

Recently, I read a post by a woman in my Widows/Widowers group on Facebook who said that the last time she attended a gathering with her late husband’s family, she proposed a toast to him. She had hoped his family would join in and bring up a happy memory or say a few kind words about him.

 

But no one did.

 

And she was so saddened by this. Particularly since he had passed only three months before. And it was his family.

 

More recently, one of his family members asked her not to bring up his name or propose a toast to him at the next family gathering. She was devastated by this and considered not going to the event. She wanted opinions of the people in our private group about what she should do.

 

I thought this was so disheartening.

 

Of course, I don’t know the particulars. Was there family strife? Was it a happy occasion (birthday for their 90-year-old grandmother, family wedding, or baby shower) where her timing was off and a toast to her deceased husband was maybe not the most appropriate thing?

 

Nevertheless, I hope that my family and friends will never stop me from mentioning Vince. And I hope it’s not uncomfortable for them, because it’s not for me.

 

Now, granted, I try not to talk only about him. You know – exclusively. I get that that could be uncomfortable and a little repetitive. I try to keep the Vince mentions down to an appropriate level and if I’m talking about the price of paper towels, for example, I don’t try to tie his name into it.

 

Because, really, who wants to talk about the price of paper towels? And anyone who knew him would wonder at my sanity that I’m bringing Vince’s name into a story about the price of paper towels.

 

But if we’re talking about a great rack of ribs, or the perfect fire pit fire, well, all bets are off. Vince was the most amazing grillmast…uh…

 

…perhaps I’ll save that story for another day.

 

A Visit to the State of My Birth

My birthday week is also my wedding anniversary, so the past couple of years have been a little tough without my Vince to celebrate with. But I’m pretty good at distracting myself – and I have some pretty great people in my life who help to distract me, too.

 

This year was no different.

 

I went to visit my cousin and friend in Ann Arbor a few weeks ago as a quick late summer getaway. And, okay, sure, it also gave me a bit of a break from having to get up at 6 a.m. every morning to walk my precious little Maggie Minx.

 

Hey, what can I say? I love the little stinker. But I also have to confess that I don’t love getting up before dawn to stumble around in the dark with a poo bag and a flashlight.

 

Anyway, Cathy and I spent hours talking and catching up on both current events in our lives as well as sharing memories from our childhood.

 

We spent some time exploring the area – including the campus at the University of Michigan. Yeah, yeah, my OSU brethren may boo and hiss – but, c’mon. Have a little respect. We’re rivals, sure, but we’re also talkin’ family here.

 

The day we drove around campus was Move-In day for the students, which meant we were dodging veritable throngs of children. Yeah, I said it. It’s hard to remember ever being that young. And yet, we were that same age when our parents released us into the wild that is a college campus.

 

What Cathy and I found amusing, however, was the way the co-eds were dressed. About 95% of them had on cropped tank tops and frayed edge jean cutoffs with the pockets peeking out of the bottoms.  (Which translates to short shorts. Very short shorts!)

 

Holy tomatoes – it was like we were transported back to the 70s! I wore the exact same outfits in high school. Well, not to actual class. But after school? Yeah, I sported that very look.

 

Now, of course, I’m amazed that my mother let me walk around like that. Guess she was picking her battles and that wasn’t the one to fight about?

 

I don’t know, but it’s too bad I can’t ask her now.

 

Another day Cathy and I took a tour of the homes our families lived in back in the day. While I could remember the name of the street my family lived on when we lived in Dearborn, I couldn’t remember the street number. I knew it had five digits, but all the houses on that street had five digits. Not helpful.

 

On the other hand, I was only six when we moved from Michigan to Ohio – so I had to give myself a pass.

 

Nevertheless, as we drove up and down the street that held my earliest memories, it was so familiar. I can remember my grandfather rocking in a rocking chair on the front porch. I can remember chasing the neighborhood boy across the street after he clonked my brother John in the head when the three of us were playing in the sandbox and John wouldn’t give up the toy Douglas wanted to play with.

 

Good thing I didn’t catch Douglas. What was I thinking I’d do to him? Clonk him back? I dunno. But I just knew I was fiercely protective of my brother and I didn’t like seeing him hurt.

 

And when I was five, I can remember morosely looking out the window at my brothers who were taunting me because I had the chicken pox and had to stay inside.

 

My revenge was realized shortly thereafter when I so kindly shared the virus with them. (Hee hee. No scratching, boys!)

 

Yeah, I was protective of him, but that didn’t mean he could tease me at will without any repercussions.

 

Anyway, it was a fun day with Cathy and it wasn’t something I would ever have thought to do. But, again, remember I was six when we moved to Ohio. I couldn’t have remembered the streets my cousins lived on back then, let alone the specific houses. I had to rely on Cathy’s superior memory. Plus, she’s a few years older than I am and she lived there a lot longer.

 

Hey, it’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.

 

Before I left to head back to Ohio, Cathy said she was going “up north” to the Irwin family cottage for Labor Day week and I should think about coming up for a few days.

 

My initial reaction was…But I’m here in Michigan now. You want me to come back?

 

And my next thought was Well…maybe.

 

She said she was hosting a cookout on Sunday, and lots of cousins would be there – so if I were coming I’d definitely want to be there on Sunday.

 

That was certainly an incentive as I love my cousins. And my cousin Margie who lives in Washington state was going to be there – and I hadn’t seen Margie in several years.

 

Still. I had to think about it and I told Cathy I’d let her know.

 

So…did I or didn’t I? (If you read my Facebook posts, you already know the answer), but stay tuned for more of the story.

 

The Great Scanning Project of 2023 Continues...

I had lunch the other day with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while and, during our conversation, she mentioned that I hadn’t written much lately.

 

True.

 

But that’s the kind of thing Vince would have said to me that would’ve spurred me on to write a blog – mostly because if I didn’t, he’d keep after me about it until I did.

 

But he – like my friend – only did it because he thought I had a talent and he wanted me to share it with the world. Or at least my little corner of it.

 

And, clearly, it works. Because here I am – writing.

 

I have written before about my photo scanning project. Yeah, that’s still happening and has seemingly taken over my life lately. The project feels interminable. I would estimate I’ve scanned maybe 4-500 photos, and I feel like I've only just cracked the surface.

 

Yikes.

 

If I were simply scanning them and throwing them all into a single computer file, that’d be one thing. But I’m scanning them for other people, too – so I’m labeling each one and adding them to multiple folders for multiple people.

 

Sometimes the ol’ memory isn’t what it used to be so I can’t always remember the year the photo was taken.

 

It’s a good thing we have the Latin word circa meaning around or about. It’s used in history to indicate an approximate timeline or date. And, sure, it’s used a lot to describe major historic battles or events that changed the history of the world during which accurate records might have been lost.

 

But I say I can also legitimately use it in Jane’s Domain to indicate when an epic Halloween bash was held and I can’t remember the exact year.

 

Not having to think so hard makes my head hurt a little less anyway. Seriously. I study the photo, analyzing the clothing, hairstyles and background and then I hypothesize about the season and year it may have been taken. It would have been SO MUCH EASIER if I had simply written the year and occasion on the back when I took the photo.

No wonder this project is going to take forever.

 

Sometimes it's not the year that stymies me - but the names of some of the people IN the photo. For example, I was scanning a photo from a friend’s wedding in the early 80s. There was a photo of me with two of our guy friends from the dorms at Ohio State. I could clearly recall the one guy’s name, but the other one eluded me. I was determined to remember it (and came close to calling my college roommate because I knew she would remember), but in the end I just didn’t include his name. Figured if it came to me, I could go back in and add it.

 

And then, a few days later I was at the doctor’s office – and the mystery guy’s name suddenly popped into my head and I actually blurted it out loud. Fortunately, I was in the inner sanctum by myself waiting for the doctor to come in. Had I said his name out loud while she was in there with me, she may have ordered a complete set of other tests that had absolutely nothing to do with the reason I was there.

 

Anyway, my “little” photo project is still ongoing. But I have had some fun moments reliving old memories and I’ve actually enjoyed the experience. Sort of. If only I didn’t have such a mess of containers in my office and living room. I’m afraid if I put them out of sight each day, I might not feel the urgency to continue the job.

 

One of the hurdles I managed was to get through the dozens and dozens of small photo albums of my parents’ travels. Little Post-Its are sticking up in the books of the photos that I intend to scan because they are good pictures of my parents and I think my siblings would appreciate having them.

 

My dad took the time to label almost every photo using the old manual typewriter he bought back when I was a kid and he hired me at a buck a page to type the abstracts he wrote and submitted to the Chemical Abstracts Service for publication.

 

Anyway, some of those photos made me laugh only because of my dad’s subtle sense of humor. I took a picture of the picture in the album (so don't judge me on my scanning skills - the following are not technically scanned!).

 

In one photo, Dad was standing in a pair of huge clogs typical of Holland. Dad typed, “My, what big feet.” I love the smile on Dad's face!

 

In another, they were sitting in an open safari vehicle in Africa when dad took a shot of a hot air balloon up ahead. He wrote, “At $360 a Trip, I would Rather Ride the Rough Roads.” Ha-ha.

 

My dad. Always the frugal one.

 

But I found myself a little verklempt when I saw a particular photo from a trip to Ireland that my sister and I took with mom and dad. It was a photo of mom, Denise and me in front of one of the many castles in the country. And dad wrote, “My three lovely ladies at Kilkenny Castle.”

 

Awww.

 

I had a copy of the very same photo, but I had never seen his caption before.

 

Dad didn’t always have enough travel photos to fill up each album, so in some of them he’d insert some random family photos. Various family gatherings that I had forgotten about, or hadn’t remembered we had taken photos.

 

So that was a nice surprise.

 

And then I came across a photo of Vince and me. It was the weekend Vince and I had driven to Alliance for my mother’s birthday and it was the first time he’d met my parents.

 

Vince had made it a wonderful birthday celebration for my mom (I’ve written about it here). And after dinner we were sitting in the family room and apparently my dad had taken our picture. He also took a photo of my brother and his wife. I had completely forgotten that they had come over after dinner to meet Vince, too.

 

I can’t tell you how thrilled I was to have found this photo as it brings back such happy memories. Which makes me exceedingly happy I didn’t just chuck the entire bin of travel photos when I was cleaning out Mom and Dad’s house.

 

Plus, Dad worked so hard on his little photo captions. I’m glad I was able to have one last look at them all.

 

So, anyway, that’s my update on the Great Photo Scanning Project of 2023. And speaking of…I should probably get back to it so that I’m not still writing about this in 2024.

 

Besides, those photos from that epic Halloween party circa 1983 are not going to scan themselves!

 

The Old Green Leather Wallet

I was cleaning out some things today and I came across my mom’s old green leather wallet.

The wallet she has had for decades. The wallet that is falling apart at the seams. The wallet we tried many times to replace for her – only to have her stick with the old green one she already had.

She liked the smaller size of it. She liked that it didn’t have too many pockets and slots for credit cards. She liked that it had softened with age and she liked that she knew where the treasured photos of her husband and children and grandchild were.

 

She also knew which compartment held the ratty card on which she’d written the phone numbers and addresses of those important to her.

I hadn’t looked in the wallet since mom moved in to her memory care unit nearly four years ago. When she first arrived, she carried her purse. Mom never went anywhere without it and moving to a memory care unit was no different. While I knew she wouldn’t need a purse there, I didn’t try to dissuade her from bringing it.

But we looked inside her wallet so I could take her ID and health care cards and any other important information she carried. The only money mom had in the wallet was a $10 dollar bill, which she handed to me.

“Well, I guess I won’t be needing this anymore, she said. “Why don’t you keep it, Jane?”

I was already an emotional wreck having to bring mom to this place that I knew she’d never leave, so the act of handing over the last little bit of cash in her wallet almost did me in. I had to excuse myself for a moment to recapture a little composure.

When I rejoined her, she’d already forgotten about her purse, the green wallet and the ten dollar bill.

So when I came across her wallet in my purging frenzy today, it stopped me dead in my tracks. I hadn’t looked inside that wallet for ages.

I carefully opened it up and inside that old wallet were the parts of one’s life that seem mundane – until the person no longer has any use for them.

Inside her change compartment were, yes, a few coins – but she also carried some bobby pins for her hair. That compartment also held a religious medal – the same medal that mom gave me from time to time in moments of strife.

She meant to give me some peace by sending me that small token – but whenever I see those medals, I think of mom.  And while it brings a little sadness, it also does bring me a sense of comfort.

Also in the change purse was a small polished green stone. I suspect she picked it up on one of their many trips around the world. But I don’t think we’ll ever really know why that stone had such significance that mom kept it in her wallet.

I removed her frequent shopper cards for a grocery store and several pharmacies in Alliance.  

The card she always carried for the grocery store in Wareham had already been discarded. It could be that dad took it out of her wallet when they sold the cottage at the Cape knowing they’d never need that card again.

For some reason, she carried dad’s library card in her wallet, although perhaps they both used just one card when they borrowed from the library.

Or perhaps with the advancement of her dementia mom lost her library card and rather than replace it, they simply used dad’s card.  

But seeing dad’s signature on the back of the card brought me to tears. So many memories came flooding back.

I remember going to the library with them as a child and later visiting the bookmobile on my own whenever it came around my neighborhood. I’d check out as many books as I was allowed and then I’d struggle to carry them home careful not to drop any of my treasures.

I am incredibly happy that my parents instilled a love of reading in all their children – so much so that sometimes when we’d all gather together, we would quietly spend time together reading or doing crossword puzzles or jumbles.

Sometimes we’d all be so still, someone would invariably say, “Aren’t we a lively bunch?!”

But it was a comfortable silence broken only by someone commenting on an interesting passage or someone else asking for an answer to the clue in the crossword puzzle.

Nowadays, people can gather together and quietly spend time scrolling or texting or YouTubing or whatever it is they’re doing on their phones, but that togetherness doesn’t seem to have quite the same camaraderie.

In later years, I’d drive my parents to the small library in Wareham. Vacations at the Cape meant I got to catch up on lots of reading and I’d check out as many of the new best sellers as I could manage in the time I had there.

Dad went from reading regular books, to reading Large Print books and then later still when macular degeneration was winning the war against his eyesight, he’d borrow books on tape.

Mom, meanwhile, transitioned from historical novels and biographies to cookbooks where she could read snippets of dishes she’d most likely never prepare. But she always liked looking at cookbooks.

Toward the end of their visits to the library Dad would help her choose travel books where she could look at the photos and he’d help her try to recapture some memories of her time spent in those locales.

Finally, inside that old green wallet were photos of her husband and her children growing up. Our high school graduation photos were in there and tucked behind them were one or two of our grade school photos.  She also kept several photos of her granddaughter, Chloe, whom she adored.

There was a small black and white photo of dad taken in April of 1953 in Winnipeg. Dad was nattily dressed in a bow tie and an overcoat smiling as he sat on some steps in front of a vast pillar.

Shortly after they returned from their honeymoon, he had been given orders to report to an Air Force station in Winnipeg, the capital of the Canadian province of Manitoba. In later years mom and dad both recounted stories of that time, with her travelling by train to the remote station and staying with him in housing with no running water. 

It was a picture of dad that I don’t think I’d ever seen before. And it made me nostalgic for times that had passed and can never be recaptured again.

Much as that old green wallet captured snippets of mom’s life. She will never relive those times again, but in looking through her wallet, I got to experience some of those special moments in her life – and ours, too.