Goodbye, Bobby (one more time)

Blue skies and bubblegum

Dear much-appreciated readers: Many of you may be receiving this column for the second time, and for that, I sincerely apologize. Technology is not my friend, and Saturday morning I hit Button X when I should have tapped Button Y, and then “delete” when I should have hit “edit” — well, you get the picture. I was soon wrapped in the proverbial ball of confusion and the only way I seem to be able to set things right is to send the whole thing out again. With that, have a happy Sunday and (possibly) enjoy reminiscing with me.

Bobby Sherman died last week, and with him died my childhood.

Am I being overly dramatic? Probably. But if you had a childhood crush, you know what I’m talking about.

Maybe it was Michael Jackson, spinning and A-B-C-ing adorably. Or maybe it was Donny Osmond, with all those extremely white teeth. Leif Garrett, David Cassidy, Shaun Cassidy…the list of Tiger Beat boys goes on and on.

Or maybe you’re decades younger, and your crush was Justin Bieber, Harry Styles, or Nick Jonas. (Is the new guy with the 1970s moustache a teen idol? I’m so many steps removed from this realm that I’m not sure.)

Anyway. Rewind to 1970.

Bobby Sherman hooked me with his mop of brown hair, falling over his dreamy eyes. (Dreamy in an entirely non-threatening way. Jim Morrison or Mick Jagger? Yuck and double yuck!)

I’m sure I annoyed my family by walking around the house belting Easy Come, Easy Go. (Can I even remember another Bobby Sherman song? Um, no.)

But what really sealed the deal for me was not so much his singing career as Here Come the Brides, a sitcom based on the musical Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Which is, crazily enough, about a bunch of flannel-wearing guys kidnapping a bunch of corset-wearing gals with an eye to marriage — and the ensuring hilarity. (But the seven brothers were all impressively good singers and dancers, so never mind about the whole abduction angle.)

Do I remember any of the plot lines of Here Come the Brides? No.

Do I remember if there was singing or dancing involved? Not really.

Do I remember the quality of the writing? Again, not so much.

What I do remember is that there were three brothers. Bobby Sherman, David Soul, aka Hutch — or was it Starsky? — and the Other Guy. The poor actor who in my memory is a nameless, faceless soul, simply because he wasn’t Bobby Sherman or even the significantly less attractive David Soul.

(Note: All opinions above are brought to you by my 9-year-old self. They in no way reflect any reality about the attractiveness or acting ability of the men mentioned.)

Also: Wikipedia tell me the oldest brother was played by TV and film actor Robert Brown. Who looks reasonably handsome to adult me. Wiki also reveals that 1930s movie star Joan Blondell was Lottie, the sassy saloon keeper who looks out for the gals. Who knew? (Probably my parents, weaned on Hollywood’s Golden Age.)

Also: I can still sing the rather unlikely lyrics to the HCTB theme song, which begins: “The bluest skies you’ve ever seen are in Seattle.” (Really?) Which I now found out was sung by Perry Como! Sweater sporting, easy listening Perry Como? Thank you, internet, for ruining my childhood!

Anyway.

My core neighborhood friend group consisted of two sisters who lived across the street — one of whom was my age and the other two years younger. Naturally, we matched ourselves up with the three brothers on HCTB.

And maybe because I was the most insistent, the most stubbornly attached, my love match was Bobby Sherman. Here come the brides? I was the bride! I was 9 years old and I had my mind made up — there was only one man, could only be one man, ever, for me.

Well, obviously that changed over the years. There was Elton John. And Bryan Ferry. And a bit later, actual boys and men.

But Bobby Sherman was the first. And for all the 60-somethings mourning with me this week, Godspeed, Bobby. You lit up our lives for a while. And made thousands of us believe that the skies really were blue, all the time, in cloudy, drizzly Seattle.