Happy Days was the number one show in America the day I met the Fonz.
Star Wars had yet to be released, which is why the teenagers in my town mobbed Henry Winkler, yet let Harrison Ford dither unnoticed on the nearby sidewalk. Even Sally Field’s considerable star power was dim given the circumstances.
Rather than act irritated, Winkler appreciated his fans.
We called out to him: “FONZIE!” He responded by turning up the collar on his coat and wheeling to face us with two thumbs up, giving us his trademark, “AAAAAYYYYYY.”
My friend and I were two goody-goodies who…
I suppose it’s time to say goodbye. Farewell, my lovely!
Sometimes I wonder how my life might have unfolded if my first car had been the flashy Datsun 280-Z that one of my high school classmates scored. As it was, mine wasn’t so obviously radiant. It was a four-on-the floor 1968 Toyota with a manual choke and a pronounced pull to the left, the lasting result of a collision that explained the unmatched yellow fender. It was so luxuriant in cheap vinyl that beads of toxic oil condensed inside the windshield on hot days. …
My childhood bestie went in for cataract surgery the week my husband and I climbed Mt. Katahdin. We rode up to Maine in our usual fashion: me in the passenger seat with my bare feet on the dashboard; him drumming the wheel as we blast Neil Young. Our late-in-life kids are finally launched and we’re flirting like teenagers again. I retired from teaching two weeks ago. All those adventures we’ve been postponing await.
We’re feeling strong. We’ve been running and hiking throughout the pandemic. The dog has lost 10 pounds. We are who we’ve always been. Age 19 forever.