It was after the last page had gone to press Thursday that I got the word: cancer had claimed the life of Farrah Fawcett at 62.
For my generation, the tail end of the Baby Boomers and the beginning of Generation X, the news was likely met with sadness and, for the males anyway, some poignancy.
For many of us, Farrah was our first pin-up girl. Millions of teenagers had “the” Farrah poster tacked up in their bedrooms. You know the one I’m talking about. The red swimsuit? The big hair?
That smile? Oh yeah, you know the one.
And my friends and I — all guys — watched Farrah all through that first season of Charlie’s Angels, thrilling when an investigation had her, and the other Angels as well, donning bikinis. This would usually get the phone ringing at my house, as one of my pals would touch base to make sure I wasn’t missing something.
BUDDY: Are you watching Charlie’s Angels? (Like he had to ask!)
ME: Yup!
Silence as Farrah, clad in a bikini, tosses back her trademark locks.
BUDDY: Did you see that?
ME (staring goggle eyed at screen, drool running off lower lip as I stretched the phone cord to its limit): Yup!!!
DAD: John Lee, get off that phone or I’m turning the TV off!
ME: Sorry man, gotta go.
That was 1976. By 1977, a lot of the girls in our neighborhood had their hair feathered just like Farrah. And it seemed the Angels were everywhere. On lunch boxes. On posters. On T-shirts.
And they were in bedrooms. Not personally, of course, but their smiling, photographic likenesses adorned our walls. Farrah was the star, but some of my friends preferred Jaclyn Smith. I don’t remember many Kate Jacksons, though one of my buddies had an upstairs attic bedroom — a la Greg Brady — and he had all the Angels: Farrah and Jaclyn and Kate. Lucky bum.
My Farrah poster got a special place on my bedroom wall, one surrounded by photos of fast cars clipped from magazines such as “Hot Rod” and “Super Chevy.” I don’t think some of my friends even saw the photos of ’57 Chevys and vintage Corvettes, though.
But time wounds all heels, I guess. Faded and torn, the Farrah poster came down sometime around 1985, as I was in college and life had become more complicated. Somehow, work and school and relationships and studying and the outdoors and more work and more school and worrying about a career and about the future took precedence over posters. I had moved out, then moved back in, a few times. I was torn about continuing my studies in computer and information science or going into writing, either as an English major or in journalism.
Well, you know how that one turned out.
Yes, on Thursday, I received the news of Farrah’s death with a heavy heart, made lighter only by memories of what seemed to be a more innocent time. These memories included not only of the first inkling that girls were something other than big pains in the neck, but also of summer days at the pool, summer weekends of camping and fishing, of bull sessions with my friends, of “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” And of my first experience with longing, hoping that the pretty blonde girl in church, the one with the feathered Farrah hair, would just cast a glance my way and smile. Just once. Then I could die happy.
And I remember the thrill of elation when she did just that.
So Farrah, Godspeed and thanks for the memories.
John Ford is managing editor of the Neosho Daily News. E-mail him at jford@neoshodailynews.com.
Anderson, Mo. —
