- Special Sections
- Public Notices
As I write this, it is Clint Eastwood’s 81st birthday. How can that be? I asked myself when I first read it.
Surely that cannot be right. Rowdy Yates is an old man? No . . .
But then I looked at his birth year and it hit me. Hard.
The man I adored when I was a child is a year older than my father.
Is that possible?
I first became enamored with Clint back in the days of Rawhide but fell seriously in love with him in 1970-71 when I saw Two Mules for Sister Sara and The Beguiled. How I longed to be Shirley MacLaine or Elizabeth Hartman!
Through the years, the love diminished but I was still a fan. I am still a fan.
But now that I reflect on it, how could I possibly be in love with someone my father’s age?
It never dawned on me back in 1970 that one of my biggest crushes could be my father.
My dad certainly had no friends that I had crushes on, but then again, none of them were Clint.
I suppose most of us had, or still have celebrity crushes.
As I reflected back over the years about mine, I realized that all of them were older than me–and the bulk were indeed of my father’s generation.
Now before you go and start thinking I have daddy issues, I must put those thoughts to rest immediately. Simply not true.
I just want a man to be a man: hard working, ethical, determined, fair, funny, strong...you get the point.
That’s why I adore Clint. And Jimmy Stewart. And Gregory Peck. And John Wayne.
OK, the last three are dead. Long dead. But nonetheless, they are the measure to which I gauge all men.
So, you ask, how did I end up married to a man three years younger than me?
He has Clint’s voice, Jimmy’s humor, Greg’s suaveness and the Duke’s swagger.
Love isn’t measured in years.