Daydream Believing

1945-2012

The day I learned of Davy Jones' death, I picked up the phone and called good friends and writing colleagues, Kathie DeNosky and Roxann Delaney.  The sad news set off a round of reminiscing about our pasts once populated by those 'cute guys' that caused our prepubescent hearts to pitter patter, Davy being among them.  We talked about magazines like Tiger Beat that included tear-out photos suitable for framing, or displaying as wall decoration, depending on your preferences.  I chose the wall option, thanks to my big sister who introduced me to the world of pop culture and pin-up posters.  Our entire shared bedroom soon became graced with pictures of the Monkees, Paul Revere and the Raiders and of course, The Beatles.  In a very short span of time, very little of our four walls remained uncovered.  Probably not even an inch. Funny, our mother never really complained.  She simply allowed us to express our love of music—and the musicians—through glossy pictures that chronicled our adolescent crushes.  Then again, she was a Davy fan, too, and absolutely loved Daydream Believer, I suspect because her name was Jean.  

I've always found the power of music truly amazing and how certain songs prompt clear recollections from my youth.  Just Walk Away, Renee by The Left Banke immediately sends me back to one morning while I was having breakfast—cinnamon toast and hot chocolate, to be exact.  A Whiter Shade of Pale by Procal Harum brings me back to a summer night where I sat on a swing, barefoot, listening to the radio with a warm breeze blowing across my face.  Other tunes remind me of those all-important milestones—a first kiss, a first love, the birth of my first child—all tied to deeply-ingrained memories. 

Music continues to be an integral part of my life to this day, and not only as a catalyst for memory-making.  Before I sit down to write a book, I populate a playlist with songs that fit the mood of the story through the melody and/or even the lyrics.  Those playlists are an eclectic mix of genres, from country to classical, that aid in sparking my imagination, stoking the creative fires and evoking those emotions so important to writing a solid love story.  

Even though the posters have now been replaced by grown-up artwork, and my taste in music has somewhat matured, I will forever be grateful for those artists, past and present--the cute guys, country crooners and delightful divas--who've formed my personal history through their songs. 

So Davy J., heartthrob extraordinaire, thanks for all the memories.  This daydream believer will never forget you.       

A Hero Of My Own

As a romance writer, I learned early on it's imperative to include an irresistible hero in your books.  Those dashing, romantic, honorable men a girl can't help but fall in love with.  Some skeptics don't believe they really exist, but I'm here to tell you they do. I had one of my very own — my husband, Steve.

Our love story began in earnest when he lowered to one knee, asked for my hand, gave me a beautiful ring, then took me to a Willie Nelson concert.  For a girl who cut her teeth on country music and more than appreciated a good romantic gesture, this was the perfect proposal, so of course I said yes.  A few months later, I began our married life together with a lot of clothes and not a whit of equine knowledge.  Steve entered our married life together with an organized closet and a slew of horses.  We went on to raise three children and too many foals to count, and I suppose I should consider myself lucky it wasn't the other way around.  

Admittedly, Steve and I were pretty much polar opposites. He chose his words carefully, I spewed whatever came to mind.  He was a planner; I was a jumper.  He was also the consummate family man as well as a respected neurosurgeon.  His colleagues and patients knew him as the cowboy physician who wore polished boots, dress jeans and a starched white lab coat.  I knew him as the husband who wore scuffed boots, holey jeans and a T-shirt that read "I'm not a doctor, but I play one on TV."  

They knew the M.D. who could toss out orders without missing a beat; I knew the rancher who could toss a fifty-pound bag of feed as if it weighed no more than a nickel.  They knew the doctor who carried a chart down the hospital hall with authority; I knew the first-time father who proudly carried his newborn daughter around the delivery room—until one nurse reminded him that the baby's mother might like to have her turn. They knew the surgeon who donned gloves to wield a scalpel with precision; I knew the guy who liked to repair fences without gloves, much to my mortification. They knew the healer who could navigate a brain practically blindfolded; I knew the typical male who wouldn't consult a map to save my sanity—and refused to ask for directions.  They knew "the look," the one that had nurses coming to attention; our children knew "the look," the one that clearly stated, "Listen to your mother."  

They knew the doctor who spent a good deal of his time in the OR, the ER and the office;  I knew the husband and father who spent his free time at home, kissing a crying baby's boo-boos and assembling toys without bothering with the instructions—keeping all the extra parts "just in case."  I still have them, along with a box containing almost every greeting card I ever gave him that he secretly saved. 

Yet very few knew about the Parkinson's Disease that prematurely ended his career, and subsequently his life.  For fifteen years I witnessed the toll that insidious disease slowly took on his body and mind, yet he never let it touch his spirit—until  eighteen months ago when he grew weary of fighting.  Needless to say, letting him go wasn't the least bit easy.  All those things I loved about him, little things I'd forgotten when I assumed the role as his constant caregiver, precious memories that returned during his last days on earth, made me hold on even tighter. But as much as I clung to the hope that he would come back to me, I eventually recognized that willing him not to leave would only be selfish. If he could have stayed, he would have, because that's what heroes do, but only as a whole man completely in charge of his body and mind, not the suffering man who sometimes forgot my name, though he never failed to recognize me.   

I will always cherish Steve's final fleeting moments of clarity, the I-love-yous and quiet goodbyes before he found that much sought-after peace.  Maybe illness robbed him of dignity in the end, but it could never erase the unconditional love he had for his wife and children, or the countless lives he saved.  It could never steal the true essence of my hero.

So on this Valentine's Day, I celebrate being completely loved by a man who has—and will always be—the cornerstone of every hero I write.  I only hope that everyone will be so blessed.