Count me in.
Tossing my warm ‘n fuzzy beret in the ring at Linda Hill’s Jots for January.
Flinging my who’s-your-Man-Crush cap into the wide open blogosphere.
After Maggie revealed her childhood penchant for a
man in a cape mouse in lycra and Joey responded with a fondness for Inspector Clouseau a frog in a trench coat, my musing mind went into overdrive. Not only do I have a slew of Man Crushes (serially monogamous, of course), but I’ve got a love-letter-list of Female Crushes.
* sound of frenzied scribbles in ‘future posts’ notebook *
My first male crush wore a coon-skin hat and deerskin leggings; carried a rifle; and steel-trapped my heart. In 1954 Fess Parker, playing the role of Davy Crockett, roamed the black-and-white-tv hills of Tenneesee while I – an impressionable 3-year-old – hung on his every backwoods adventure.
As true heroes do, Fess/Davy saved my life. Or rather brought me back to life.
Remember those days when small town parks consisted of bare dirt, a one-room log cabin, a slide, a merry-go-round and a picnic table? The slide and merry-go-round made of metal that blistered so hot in the July sun, it burned your skin? The picnic table of wood so rough you’d go home from craft day with a sliver or two in your hand, elbow or bottom?
The good old days.
When slides were simple constructs of steep steps with skinny handrails and a top landing so narrow, you barely sat before beginning your downward skid.
One day, like any seasoned three-year-old slide fanatic, I wanted more speed. Squatting on the top landing, I reared back to give myself a big push-off; accidentally let go of the handrails; and tumbled back down those unforgiving metal stairs, knocking myself out by the time I hit the ground.
Mom rushed across the street from her parked car; scooped me up; raced home to lay me on the couch and call Dr. Vastine. “Wait and watch” he advised. “If she’s not awake in two hours, call me back.”
Moms in the ‘50s didn’t ‘wait and watch’. They had chores to do!
Mom was scrubbing pots in the kitchen when she heard familiar offkey singing from the living room: “Davy. Davy Crockett. King of the Wild Frontier…”
To this day she tells me, “That’s when I knew you’d be all right.”
I have forgotten a lot of things about my early years, but Fess/Davy and his signature song will be part of me all the way to Heaven.