Nance Crawford

At 9 a.m. today, I was in the dentist’s chair with my mouth open, chock full of his hand and dental equipment. Repairing a bridge.

Doing fine. No pain. Then realized I recognized what was playing over the sound system. It was so quiet. I knew that song, couldn’t place it.

Unexpectedly my eyes started to fill. I couldn’t believe it. “Id dat duh Munkees?” I asked, the moment his hand pulled away from my vanished molars.

“Yes,” he answered.

Daydream Believer.

I forced myself to turn off the urge to cry. It was a blessing.

Dad would be 96 today.

He was an editor on “The Monkees.”

Thank you, Lord. I needed that.