on TV's "The Waltons."
The earnestness. The naivete. The overalls (occasionally with no shirt). And that mole.
I loved John Boy more than air and rice pudding put together. I had all things Waltons, even the lunch box. Which I carried until the lid rusted shut.
Then, lovingly stashed in the bottom of the closet - with the rest of me.
My fundamentalist family thought I had such fine family values, bonding with such a saccharine TV drama. But it was never about the morality tales, the life lessons, or the tender good nights.
No, this was all about wanting to shag John Boy.
In the barn, his attic bedroom, or in the rumble seat of the old Ford.
I dreamed he would write me terribly poignant love messages in pencil, on his goldenrod tablet.
Or type them on the old Remington.
I loved him, but also wanted to be him. I loved to write, and the 1930's felt like my era from another incarnation. He was respected by his parents, but they never really understood his tenderness.
Like John Boy, I lusted for fancy book learning.
But of course, my true lust was really for him!
I fantasized about us going down to the old swimming hole, dropping our mended dungarees, and diving in.
We would get drunk on moonshine whiskey, then commit carnal acts heretofore unknown on Walton's mountain.
Goodnight, John Boy. I love you.
Philip - Lima, OH
Inspired by the "Born This Way Blog" - BornThisWayBlog.com