Then I saw your face….in my kitchen every morning. Davy Jones.

Then I saw your face….in my kitchen every morning. Davy Jones.

“I always wrote the song around the title.”

That was Davy Jones’ observations on a recent radio interview.

I’m the opposite with blog posts. I usually don’t think of the title until after it’s written.

Which probably explains for my poor titles and aimless wandering of content.

*   *   *

As I sat in a waiting room late this afternoon, the DJ on the radio spoke of how sad she was to hear of Davy Jones’ death.

The woman sitting beside me looked up from grading a stack of papers — her nose and forehead a bit scrunched.

“Davy Jones of the Monkees…not the Pirate,” I decided to offer.

“Oh. That makes a lot more sense.”

This album cover hangs in my kitchen.

I never had it as a child but the minute I saw it in an old album section of a bookstore

(Wow, if they aren’t two endangered species — albums and bookstores.),

I bought it.

Why?

Because the Monkees always make me happy.

They made me happy watching them as a four year old and five songs are permanent fixtures on my iPod.

*  Hey, Hey We're the Monkees.

*  Last Train to Clarksville.

*  I'm a Believer.

*  I'm Not Your Steppin' Stone.

*  Daydream Believer.

Favorite episode of The Brady Bunch? Okay, maybe not favorite when you think of the Hawaii ones or the Silver Platter one — but I loved it when Marcia got kissed by Davy Jones.

She did get kissed didn’t she?

I’m not even going to google it because that’s the way I remember it.

He was adorable and kind and talented.

Thank you Davy for always bringing a smile to my smile,

a kick to my run and

a driving-in-the-car dance that never fails to embarrass my children — whenever and wherever I hear your music.

Who doesn’t feel the same way?