Goodbye, Wild Thing

The Troggs, in their prime.

The Troggs, in their prime.

BBC radio woke us at 5:30 a.m. today, and the first thing I heard was that Reg Henry, lead singer of the Troggs, passed away yesterday. He was 71 and had battled lung cancer.

Everybody remembers the Troggs’ oft-played garage anthem, “Wild Thing,” which shot up to number one and still never fails to stir, even 45 years after it first came out. But I thought immediately of their other song, one that captured the angst and longing of my middle school years: “Love is All Around.” The melodic bass of the initial bars, as soft and careful as a tiptoe, imprinted itself on me from the very first time I heard it. The words sum up the uncomplicated adoration of idealized love:

“You know I love you. I always will
My mind’s made up by the way that I feel
There’s no beginning, there’ll be no end
‘Cause on my love you can depend.”

What better words to capture the longing of a middle-school crush? “Love Is All Around” will always remind me of one of mine: Wayne, a handsome, blue-eyed loner who found his way into our tight group of friends in our blue-collar neighborhood. Every pre-teen girl in the neighborhood pined for him, and nobody landed him for years, until he eventually dated my friend Mary Lou in high school. I’d scribble his initials and the words “Love Is All Around” all over the brown paper cover on my science textbook, on the inside flap to hide it from the Catholic school nuns.

My sister Julie, who also secretly loved Wayne, and I would watch him out our back window as he played basketball on a neighbor’s driveway. We’d tune into the old Philadelphia AM radio stations, WFIL and WIBG “Wibbage,” to listen for the Troggs song that had become unsuspecting Wayne’s theme song. We’d be so bummed if we turned on the radio and heard its waning bars and knew we had missed it. This was 40 years before iTunes and we’d spin the radio dial like a roulette wheel, hoping each time we’d hit.

And then it would happen. Those first bass tiptoes would sneak up on us, then we’d hear the twangly lead guitar and Reg Henry’s voice, sounding vaguely southern:

“Ah feel it in my fingers; ah feel it in my toes
Love is all around me, and so the feelin’ grows.”

Eventually somebody in the neighborhood bought the 45 of “Love Is All Around” and we’d listen to it over and over again on a portable record player. Our little group would have “record hops” in a neighbor’s unfinished basement, where we’d fast-dance to Martha and the Vandellas, experiment with kissing and swoon over the Troggs.

Today I learned that Reg Presley retired only last year because of his lung cancer, but that the remaining Troggs members, Chris Britton (guitar), Pete Lucas (bass) and Dave Maggs (drums) planned to keep touring. That’s good. But can the group survive without that signature voice, the one that snarled for his wild thing and balanced coolness and plaintiveness in “Love Is All Around” when he asked his beloved if she loved him back?

“It’s written on the wind. It’s everywhere I go
So if you really love me, c’mon and let it show.”

A few months ago I visited Julie and we were heading out for some shopping, when she smiled and said she had a surprise for me. She pushed the button of her iPod Nano and I heard the first bars of that song we both loved 45 years ago and continue to love still. It brought us back to shared confidences in our twin beds before we dozed off to sleep; to longing glances out our back window at a blue-eyed boy playing basketball; to listening to 45s and dancing in our neighbor’s basement; to the sweetness of that first, unrequited love. Thank you, Reg.

Neither Newly Wed, Nor Nearly Dead

I can't go there.

I can’t go there.

Over the past few months we’ve received a number of brochures in the mail sent by companies who assume that we are either very old and/or very wealthy. Has anyone else had this problem?

Many of these mailings are glossy brochures advertising Viking river cruises to Prague, Budapest and other exotic and far-off places, with costs for two exceeding the cost of a patio or used car. A few cruises are sponsored by the alumni association of our alma mater, which has no doubt assumed that everybody in the Class of ’76 is now flush with cash – even those of us who studied journalism. What bothers me, beyond the assumption that we have all this cash, is that cruises have always been for “the newly wed or the nearly dead.” Since we’ve been married almost 15 years I can only assume the worst.

Because my husband has his own business, development officers from our alma mater over the past few years have contacted him about meeting personally. “I’m going to be in Boston next (date),” bubbled one in a friendly note. “Would love to have the chance to meet with you and talk about all the great things our school is doing.”  Moreover, other mailings that we’ve received have suggested that we leave a “lasting legacy” to their organization in our estates.  Quoting a childhood neighbor, we’d just like to have enough to pay the guy who shovels the last shovel of dirt.

I wonder if somewhere in cyberspace, some evil trolls are combing through our emails and clicks and cross-referencing them with data about the jobs we’ve had, the organizations we’ve supported and the magazines that we’ve ordered – then divine that we are millionaire empty-nesters with money to burn.

Here is what these trolls would see on the surface: a couple in their late 50s, who are part of AARP and who’ve given money to public television, living in a Zip Code with a lot of high-net-worth individuals. A home-based business that is doing well; an Expedia account; an AKC-registered dog, an online subscription to the Wall Street Journal. Bingo! The type of family that would plunk down a Honda-sized chunk of cash to cruise the Rhine.

Here is what they don’t see: our biggest and most successful investments have been in six big accounts – five of them have now matured and are doing just great. The remaining one is just 14. The reason we’ve sent money to PBS is because I received in return a free DVD set of Ken Burns’ documentary of the Civil War for Bob for Christmas. Our Expedia account is used mainly to book the cheapest flights to places where we can mooch off relatives. While our town includes a lot of private wine cellars and humidors, we store our wine on a few wrought-iron racks from Pier One, and our after-party ritual is sprawling on the couch and watching a football game.

So there you have it. Please stop sending us this travel porn. We’d love to cruise the Danube, but we have a patio and replacement windows in our future.

We’ll Miss You, Davy

The girls in my Catholic school class daydreamed about Davy Jones (second from right) when we were not learning our Beatitudes.

For millions of baby boomers, part of their tween years died yesterday with Davy Jones.

Davy and The Monkees helped set the stage for many acts that would follow over the next four decades.  As a manufactured rock band – hatched not in a garage or basement, but in a television studio seeking to capitalize on “A Hard Days Night” – The Monkees were pioneers, clearing the way for “Glee,” “Smash,” and other television shows where the music rather than the plot is the real star.  Davy and his mates were thrown together by television, rather than hanging out in real life, but somehow they coalesced as a band.  Their best songs came from other people – Carol King, Neil Diamond, Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart – but the Monkees made the songs catchy and shiny.

Unlike many other pop stars of the late 60s era, Davy occupied a unique place in our ‘tween girl psyches.  Elvis and Frankie Avalon were too old; Sir Paul was cute but already an icon rather than a flesh-and-blood guy; Mick was just too dangerous.  Davy could sing and he was famous, but somehow he seemed accessible and nice — like the older brother of the cutest boy in class, before he got shipped off to Vietnam.  He was The Beebs of the 1960s.  His cuteness quotient was off the charts.

The girls in my seventh-grade Catholic school class adored Davy.  We listened breathlessly for his voice in the Monkees’ songs – the “ba ba ba ba…ba ba ba ba” chorus of “Pleasant Valley Sunday;” his sweet English tenor on “Daydream Believer,” “Look Out, Here Comes Tomorrow,” and “When Love Comes Knocking at Your Door.”  Mary Joan Fricker, whose desk was across the aisle in Sister Mary Boniface’s class, had the lyrics from Davy’s songs scrawled on the brown paper cover of her Baltimore Catechism.  We shared Davy stories from the latest “Monkees” episodes and swooned over him.

Davy was our crush during that fleeting period when we had one foot in childhood and one in brooding adolescence. We still colored within the lines, memorized the Beatitudes and worked on our penmanship, but we’d hike up the hem of our school  uniforms when the nuns were not looking.  A few of us wore fishnets and lace-up granny shoes with our uniforms; sometimes we got away with it.  We listened to the Temptations, Gary Lewis and the Playboys, and of course, The Monkees.

“More of the Monkees” was the first record album that I ever bought.  It cost $3.59 at the Bazaar of All Nations in my hometown, a down-at-the-heels department store that is no longer there.  Davy’s smiling face greeted me from the display rack set on the ragged linoleum at the record store doorway.  I rushed home to put it on the turntable and let Mickey and Davy sing to me.  Two doors down, the O’Toole family would host record hops in their basement for us neighborhood kids and Monkees songs would be in the same mix as The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel and The McCoys.  My sister Julie and I listened the 45 of “Daydream Believer” thousands of times.

A few years later we were too cool for The Monkees — who were on their way out anyway —  and we began listening to Led Zeppelin and Iron Butterfly.   We switched from AM radio to the FM “underground” station.  The Monkees were packed away with the repressed memories of our awkward preteen years.  But new generations would discover them years later, and appreciate their tuneful ballads from a simpler time.   And we jaded music lovers would rediscover them as well.   RIP, Davy.

Dad’s New Bride: Companion or Gold-Digger?

It's natural to worry about an inheritance when an older parent remarries, even when the new spouse is closer in age than Anna Nicole Smith, 26, was to Howard Marshall, 89, who died a year after they wed. Smith tried for a hefty share of her late husband's estate.

Angela, a middle-aged owner of a small business, heard recently that her 89-year-old father Charles was getting married to Mary, his 78-year-old girlfriend.  Angela’s reaction? While genuinely happy for her dad, she also felt fear, because she was worried that her inheritance was in jeopardy.

A few weeks ago I asked Sandwich Lady readers to send in their stories about aging parents’ remarriages.  A few shared very frank thoughts about their mixed feelings.  It took years for Marilyn, one reader, to come to terms with her dad’s four marriages.  Another reader, VeggieSandwichGeneration, wrote that “There was a new woman in our space and she struggled to let us into what she didn’t realize, or didn’t care, had been our space prior to that.”

“I think in our heart of hearts we all want the best for our parents, just as parents want for their children,” wrote Amy, whose dad married her mother’s best friend. “It is when the things that our parents find to be best for them are different from that picture of the ideal, engrained into us from childhood, that it is difficult to know how to proceed with the new course of things.”

Along with gathering these insights from Sandwich Lady readers I also have spoken informally to some friends and acquaintances whose parents remarried at a late age. One is Angela, who was brave enough to wander into dangerous territory and talk about money if I disguised her name.  I suspect many other midlife children secretly worry about their inheritance  — and feel a lot of shame about it afterwards — when their parents take another spouse late in life.

Angela, who is childless and never married, said that Charles began dating his girlfriend Mary just five months after the death of his wife.  “Dad told me when Mom died that he was going to go downhill,” Angela recalled.  But less than half a year later, he was dating again.

Her octogenarian dad changed from dejected to dashing, and Angela was genuinely happy to see Charles have a new zest for life.  Charles and Mary moved in together, and the couple began traveling and socializing with friends. “I couldn’t have thought of anybody who was more perfect for my dad,” Angela said. “She even was a better companion to him than my mom in some ways.”

But when Charles announced in January he and Mary would be getting married (“I’m afraid of what the neighbors think about us living together,” he confided to his daughter), some unwelcome thoughts began to bubble up in Angela’s mind.  As she put it:  “I really do need an inheritance.  I’ve been single all my life.  Dad knows this and I am hoping he will still take care of me.”

Angela grew even more concerned when she asked her father when he and Mary would tie the knot, and he said, “I don’t know…I have to complete some legal work first.”  She was hoping that he was talking about a pre-nuptial agreement but can’t be sure.  To make matters worse, Charles refused to elaborate.

Charles has never been upfront about his finances, even when he was married to Angela’s mother.  The mother controlled most of the money and didn’t share much information either. “My parents would never discuss money when we were growing up,” Angela recalls.  “We didn’t know if we were poor or rich.  They held their cards so close to the chest.”

Mary has children of her own, as well as property that she acquired during her first marriage.  Angela is guessing that a pre-nup would benefit Mary as well.  But nobody is talking and she can’t be sure.

Many might argue that aging parents have the right to spend all of their money if they so choose, and nobody should rely on an inheritance as a financial lifeboat.  Even a few older people embrace this idea – look at the thousands of bumper stickers that announce, “I’m spending my children’s inheritance.” I remember one acquaintance who once told everyone that “When I die, I want to have just enough money to pay the guy who shovels the last shovel of dirt.”

Yet I can’t help but feel sad for Angela, who has struggled to build something for herself without a husband and was counting on an inheritance.  She is not unlike the aging spouse who gets jettisoned for a trophy wife, but without any divorce laws that provide for her.  I think that Charles should at least share his plans with her so she can know where she stands.

Many midlife people worry about leaving something to their children, especially in an era when young people are having such a hard time amassing wealth of their own.  Estate lawyers get very rich showing us how to preserve as much as our nest egg as possible for our heirs. And I suspect nearly every middle-aged person also wonders how much their parents are leaving them in their will, even if they never bring it up.

Of course, unforeseen circumstances can eat away at an inheritance:  a costly illness, a nursing home stay, tax code changes, a weakened Social Security system that requires that older people draw down more of their own savings just to get by.  And yes, a new spouse can be one of those unknowns as well.  So can an aging parent’s preference to enjoy more of their hard-earned money.

Angela says she is happy that Charles has found love again, and feels a lot of “shame and guilt” when she worries about her inheritance.  Still, she can’t help worrying and Charles’ silence is not helping.

I think that the baby boomers need to start the difficult conversation about inheritances.  We need to share our own estate plans with our kids (indeed, we need to HAVE a plan first..How many of us don’t?)  Aging parents need to be up-front about what their heirs can expect, even if it means being frank about their plans to spend all their money, as is their right.  And all parties should bear in mind that there are no guarantees.