The Sundance Kid & Me

How many people can pinpoint the precise minute they entered puberty?  I can.

For weeks my sixth grade classmate and best friend, Tricia, had been raving about this great movie her parents had taken her to see. It was Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and she simply couldn’t stop talking about it. It was the best movie ever, she swore. I had to see it, I simply had to.

The problem was, it was rated (the now defunct) M, which in 1970 was the equivalent of today’s PG rating. After begging and pleading and whining and moping, and pulling every pre-teen stunt guaranteed to drive a parent absolutely nuts, my parents agreed I could see the movie. Only, that is, after they interviewed others who confirmed it was indeed acceptable viewing for a 12-year old. And even then I had to promise to sit in the very last row of the theater and in an aisle seat. For a quick exit in case of fire or pervert.

So there I sat by myself on a warm Sunday afternoon inside the Dublin Cinema. It was May 3, 1970 and I was about to see the 2:00 pm matinee of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I was chilled, not so much from the air conditioning as from nerves. I had never seen an M movie and wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

The lights dimmed. The clacking of the projector sounded as the film began rolling, displaying grainy sepia tone images on screen. Instantly I felt a ping of disappointment. $1.50 for a matinee and the movie wasn’t even in color? 

I munched on my Hot Tamales, cursing Tricia for making me sacrifice a sunny spring day to sit in a theater and watch a brown and white movie. And she hadn’t mentioned it was a western. I sighed and settled deeper in my seat.

Once the opening credits were over, the movie shifted to a boring card game in progress as the camera panned the players’ faces. Ugly adult men.

Card Player #2: Well, looks like you just about cleaned everybody out, fella. You haven't lost a hand since you got to deal. What's the secret of your success?

Then the camera zoned in on the stoic, rugged mug of Robert Redford as the Sundance Kid.

Sundance Kid: [pause] Prayer.

My heart stopped. Suddenly this brown and white western with the Sundance Kid was absolutely fascinating. And for the next two hours, internal fireworks began exploding as hereto unleashed hormones now surged through every cell in my body, kick-starting puberty like the launch of Apollo 11 that previous July.

(When that little event took place Tricia and I were outside playing handball. My mother asked us nicely to come in and watch the world’s first lunar landing and I recall saying something like, “thanks but no thanks.” It was only when she yelled at us to come in right now because “…history is being made dammit, and you are going to watch whether you like it or not!” that we reluctantly dragged ourselves in inside and saw man walk on the moon. Big deal. Can we go out and play now?)

Oh but this. What was happening right now was a far bigger moment than Neil Armstrong’s little traipse in space. This, my friend, was puberty.

I was unaware of anything. Of breathing or raging hormones or rockets red glare. I could only sit and stare unblinkingly, absolutely mesmerized as the next two hours flew by. Dumbstruck by that gorgeous man on the silver screen. When the movie was over I returned home in a love-struck stupor. Robert Redford was really old. At least 30. And I was only 12. Could we make it work?  I had to phone Tricia to discuss my newfound feelings.

“Didcha like it?” she asked. Before I could answer she added anxiously, “What did you think of Paul Newman?”  Ah, so puberty had launched for Tricia too. Who cared that at 44, Newman was even older than my new paramour. Tricia and Paul could overcome any obstacles. Just like me and Robert.

That summer Tricia and I saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid a half dozen times. And when it left the Dublin Cinema for the Dublin Drive-In, we planted our pubescent bodies on a nearby grassy knoll near Tricia’s home and on warm summer nights, equipped with binoculars, we watched the silent movie from afar. We didn’t need sound anyway.

That fall Tricia and I entered seventh grade. Junior High as it was known back then. And we soon discovered other things that accompany puberty. Like tie-dyed shirts, hot pants, Love’s Baby Soft perfume, slumber parties and rock n’ roll. Eventually Butch and Sundance were replaced with Doug and Mike. And Scott and Richard and Spencer and all those other Junior High boys so young. So immature. But so real.

Today, when I want to remember that one pivotal moment in time, I don’t review yearbooks or peruse old diaries. Instead, I pop in my DVD of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Today still my favorite movie.

And I bid adieu to old age, newfound wrinkles, and burgeoning gray hair. Instead, I’m twelve one more time. With the world at my feet and Sundance by my side.

And in the End

Sigh. There have been three deaths over the past three weeks and well, it gets a person thinking. A few years back, I outlined my Celebration of Life preferences in specific detail but I was young and healthy at the time. I did it more as a lark. Now? I'm retired, collecting Social Security, and flashing my Medicare card like it's a backstage pass to a Springsteen concert. So, here's an update, folks. This is how I'd like my Celebration of Life for reals, not to mention one very important detail to omit from my obituary. 

Flowers: I love carnations. When I was a child, my sister and I lived across the street from carnation nurseries and I have fond memories of us playing with the owners' daughters, Mari and Leslie, in the hothouses amidst row after row of growing flowers. Today, just a whiff of their sweet cinnamon scent takes me back to those happy days. Really, no roses. Nothing foo foo, fancy or expensive. Just carnations. Oh, and maybe a few hydrangeas. They're a nostalgic reminder of my abuelita, who grew them in the yard of her San Francisco bungalow in the Avenues.

Attire: I'm not a snob. Honestly, I'm not. But it's my Celebration of Life and here's the thing--I really don't want to look from way on high (at least I hope) at hairy men toes in sweat-stained Birkenstock sandals. Save those for your next Jimmy Buffet cover band concert. My attire has always been the epitome of casual and I'm the first to stress comfort. But dead me asks that you leave the paint-spattered cut-offs and Rolling Stones 1992 World Tour t-shirts at home. Just about anything else is welcome. Humor dead me? Thank you.

Music: Ah, this one's tricky. Music at my Celebration of Life should reflect who I was when I tip-toed through the tulips, but this isn't a concert so I need to reign it in a bit. Ideally played during a video montage of photos, I'd like tunes that are meaningful, irreverent, and nostalgic. Oh yeah, and maybe a couple with just enough sentiment to elicit a teardrop or two. Hey, I'm dead, remember? I see you playing Words with Friends on your iPhone. At least pretend to be sad!

Here are a few of my favorites, in no particular order, with an explanation for some.  

• God Only Knows by the Beach Boys. It was at a Beach Boys outdoor concert at the Concord Pavilion in 1997. I was surrounded by people dancing, soaking up the sun, and having a great time. Then my favorite Beach Boy Carl Wilson took the mic. He announced that he was battling lung cancer but he was going to beat this, by God. Everything suddenly came to a screeching standstill. People just stood there, stunned. Then he sat on a stool and proceeded to sing God Only Knows as people openly wept. He was gone in six months. It's a beautiful song that reminds me of a beautiful man that brought joy to so many.
• Darlin' by the Beach Boys. Just because.
• Always Look at the Bright Side of Life by Monty Python. Snicker. At least I'm not suggesting the "Bring Out Your Dead" clip from Monty Python & The Holy Grail although come to think of it, that would be pretty funny. Yeah, do it. 
• God and Dog by Wendy Francisco. Every night, I laid alongside my Greyhound, Aiden, and sang this song to him. Today when I hear it, it makes me teary-eyed because I lost my goofy boy far too young. If you believe in a higher power and love dogs, you'll get this song.
• Wouldn't it be Good by Nik Kershaw. Probably my all-time favorite. 
• Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head by B.J. Thomas. From the soundtrack of my number one movie, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, which launched a lifelong crush on Robert Redford. I remember pouring over every detail about him in 16 Magazine and seriously thinking, "He's 34 and I'm 12...we could make it work!"
• Circles by Post Malone. During the pandemic, I heard this a lot on the radio as I worked at my computer with my other Greyhound, Hazel (pictured above), by my side. Today, when I hear this song I feel a painful little ping in my heart and remember my Hazel. 
• The End by the Beatles. A little bit of rock with a slam-dunk ending. 
• And close with...drum roll please....Come on Eileen by Dexy's Midnight Runners. C'mon, you knew I had to include this one.

And I promise, the first person to suggest Dancing in the Street is going to discover that a heavenly ass-whooping is indeed possible. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Pam. 

Lastly, my obituary should include my age, a photo of me (Gasp! She was so young!) with at least one of my dogs, and my tragic cause of death.

But here's one detail to omit and why. 

A while back, I was walking the dogs with my good friend Sandra when we started discussing how our parents had died. My dad, leukemia, hospital. My mom, ovarian cancer, hospital. Her mom, breast cancer, hospital. Her dad, aneurism, toilet. "He was on the toilet" I asked? "Yes," she replied with a stone face. Silence. 

Then she cracked a smile. So did I. And that did it. The floodgates opened and we giggled like two ten-year old boys who'd just heard their teacher fart. Meeting your Maker on the toilet is actually quite common and just as sad as any other death, so no disrespect intended. But you have to admit, a can doesn't quite conjure up a heart-tugging image. Did Love Story, Brian's Song or Steel Magnolias feature an American Standard as a deathbed? I rest my case.

So, should I have the misfortune to meet my demise on the commode, I told Sandra, who's been charged with writing my obituary, just say that I was found on the floor near the toilet. Around the toilet. By the toilet. In the vicinity of the toilet. But please, not ON the toilet. And insiders who know the truth? Enjoy a good laugh. I'll be right there with ya.

Of course, take all of the above with a grain of salt, hopefully sprinkled around the rim of a Midori Margarita. Bring your dogs, enjoy chocolate chip cookies at the post-reception, and laugh. Because the only thing that really matters is what the Beatles once sang.

"...and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."  

Amen.