Golden Slumbers fill your mind . . .

So it's been a long, looooong, looong time. Cue George Harrison from The White Album. 

I am going to try to update the last few years. The last three have been a hoot. 

We shall see how far I get in the matter. This picture is from December 29, 2021. My last day as a Closet Design Specialist at The Container Store. It was a fun gig, but the time had come. Trouble was on the horizon and customers made it miserable for me to show up each and every shift. To say that the pandemic has really loosen a few screws in the heads of others is a mild understatement. To say that I have had a few screws loosen due to life in the last two years is even a more understatement. 

However, it seems time to dip my feet back into writing, this time for healing. 

Let the healing begin. 

 

The Dark Day

Every year I have a Dark Day. It's nothing as traumatic as it sounds, much more a nod to The Gilmore Girls. The Dark Day falls on December 8, the anniversary of the killing of John Lennon.

People have asked about the Dark Day and its significance. Most are kind and loving in response, some not so kind. 'Everyone has their moments' is my thought. Mine is mine.

Recently I have been cleaning up and organizing my house. Now that sweet pea and cutie pie are off on their own, there's about 20 years of stuff that needs sorting through, purging and storing. I have a box with all my old journals, calendars and schedules. Yes, I save just about everything. This morning, I found that box again and a formerly white, now yellowing Hello Kitty journal from 1980.

Since I recently recalled my Dark Day, I thought I would see if I actually documented what happened the day it actually happened - December 8, 1980. My entry on December 8 was brief, stating the obvious recitation of the newsflash: "Tonight, around 10 (in NY) John Lennon, ex-Beatle was shot to death by a "local screwball" at his apartment complex, The Dakota, in Manhattan. Lennon was 40 years old and loved by many all over the world". It then turned to my reaction: "The Russians are on the brink of invading Poland. My God! What is this world coming too!!!" 

My entry on December 9 shows reflection and acceptance of what had happened. Remember, I was 17 and a senior in high school at the time . . .

"The shock continues and the world grieves. John Lennon was loved by many, one was me. So many things flash thru: Bill Kurtis first announcing the incident, the obscure radio station where I first heard he was dead. The twang of panic, shooting thru me like a chill from a cold. The horrifying thought of a world without him. Then there's the image of John & Yoko, walking up, he turning back to a shower of bullets, he stumbles to the ground. I feel so sorry for the younger ones. Those who will only hear and not experience. I feel sorry for those that lived the era and enjoyed it to the most. I feel so sorry for those who wanted to touch and re-live the 60's era but the chance will never come. Some say we're lucky because we still have their music and can be played until the plastic disc are worn out. But we hoped, dreamed and imagined the aspect of The Beatles - a concert, a brand new film, a newly released album. All which has disipated (sp) like a small puff of smoke from a pistol. I loved John and shall miss him like the million others. John was robbed of "Starting Over" and we were robbed of his finished project." 

AA 12-9-80 

In lieu of my high school photo, which for the life of me I cannot find in this mess, here is a related pic of me, late 70's. I guess not everything is properly stored, just yet. 

I've Just Seen A Face . . .

If you were on the east coast or midwest time zones last night and watching NBC's 30 Rock - you got a real treat. Sir Paul himself stole the show with his walk-in and walk-out scenes. Ah, Tina Fey, if I could only shake your hands today, lucky girl you are! If you missed it, I highly encourage you to find the episodes to see it. It is worth the find! On a related note, those of you on the west coast watching 30 Rock got Kim Kardashian. I think Paul was the better choice but since I failed to keep up with the Kardashian's last weekend at Woodfield, my opinion shouldn't be your measuring stick. But again, I will vote for Paul in a moment in any election. Anyway, all in good fun! Thanks, Paul!

We're so sorry . . . Uncle Albert!

“We’re so sorry . . . . Uncle Albert, We’re so sorry, if we caused you any pain. . ."

In the summer of 1971, two very pivotal events happened in my world, that of an eight year old. First, my Dad began leasing a Cadillac luxury car with each and every new model year to impress his business clients. His work was in the music business, wheeling and dealing, selling musical instruments and equipment from major vendors to individual mom and pop music stores in the greater Detroit area. Secondly, he began to let me come along for occasional, quick car trips to visit local music shops. I don’t know if it was to give my mom a break from me, or if my Dad just wanted a bit of company as he would travel to different storefront shops to drum up some business (excuse the pun). Regardless of my Dad’s real reasons to let me join him, I didn’t much mind. We would take off on an adventure in a new car with me riding in my designated backseat on the passenger side, directly opposite of my driving Dad. It made me feel special to travel in that car, smell the new car smell and see the scenery fly by as I looked out of the window.

The first car that he leased was golden in color with two fin-tails in the back. It was a 1971 Cadillac Coupe De Ville with the buttery colored fabric seats inside. I remember sitting in the backseat and feeling that I was in the biggest car I had ever hope to be in. It was most likely the most expensive car ever made, or at least so I thought. On the first night that it arrived in our driveway, my five year old younger sister and I were invited to pile into the back seats for our first ride as my Dad held open the door for us. It was summer time and we were barefoot. The carpet on the car floor felt luxurious to our toes and the smell of the new seats made us feel proud, like our family had finally hit the big time. “This must be how the rich kids and their families drove around town”, I whispered, leaning toward my sister. Before he closed the door, my Dad bent over and looked at us square in the eyes with a serious face. “Do not make any messes or put any marks in his new car. This car is here for business. There will not be any dirt, smudges or other messes made in this car. Understand?” With our backs pinned against the high back seats and our feet dangling over the new carpeting and floor mats on the floor, my sister and I nodded. We were to be very careful while in his new car.

After that initial ride, I soon made discoveries about the car that made it even more magical than luxurious. There was a little small metal door on the door handle console that I could pop open. I am sure it was for cigarette ashes. There was a little pull down arm in between my sister’s seat and mine that our Barbies could sit on and ride like queens. Just behind the backseat of the Cadillac was the most amazing feature of the car, or at least the only feature I truly cared about. Behind the top of the back seats and going all the way back to the sloping rear window was a sea of golden brown metal woven texture netting – it was the cover of the back seat radio speakers. The mesh complimented in color to the creamy yellow of the seats, perhaps only a touch darker. The car speakers and their covering mesh ran the width of the car. Sometimes I would face backwards, get on my knees to look out the beautiful big rear window as the path toward our destination flew behind. On occasion, when my Dad would park the car in front of a music store, he would leave the engine on while he went in to do his business. The radio was also left on. It was time to play my favorite game.

While he was inside the store, I would move out of my seat, turn to face the back window by kneeling on the buttery leather seats. I could reach over the seat and put my hands flat on the sea of mesh to feel the music pounding through while the speaker as it was played. It felt like little pops of air that hit the mesh when music was played. It was fun to try to guess which side of the speaker would pound next during a song, as it had stereo speakers. It was a game to see if I could place my hand on the correct side of the screen before the bass would hit a note. My father would only let me play my game while the car was in park, but every now and then, when we were on a long drive, while seated facing forward, I would try to sneak my left arm up high over my head and over the seat to see if I could reach the beat.

The real trick of the game was to have my Dad pick the right music station to play, like a rock and roll station. He frequently listened to big band music or Frank Sinatra or something he felt that was redeemable from all the loud and raucous music of the day. The charm to my game would be for the radio station to play the right kind of song, that had a good beat. In the era of soft rock and the rise of groups like Bread, America, and The Carpenters, their melodies and acoustics didn’t provide much fodder for my speaker & hand game. How I longed for the station to play something to give me a challenge to guess where the mesh would pound next.

“Hands across the water . . . hands across the sky!“

One day, during one of my Dad’s business stops, the radio station played Paul McCartney’s new song “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey”. This song seemed worthy for my game – I was going to try to outwit Paul’s bass playing. After one try, it became my favorite song, one where I couldn’t wait to hear it again on the radio. It started slowly, but built up as the song went along. The bass notes were like marching beats, rhythmic and constant, hitting the speakers with blasts. The thunder storm sound effects in the middle section of the song were fun to predict as well. The beats became more pronounced and unpredictable in the second half of the song, then the stereo sound kicked in and the beats would go back and forth between the two speakers. My hand went right over left like a piano player, to try to reach the two sides of the speakers, trying to beat Paul to the musical punch. Sometimes I would cheat and put both hands on each speaker and hold them, waiting for the vibration but that was less fun. This song was played a lot on the radio so I could get in a lot of practice, practice trying to beat Paul at his own game.

On another trip, my father left the car engine running while he was inside visiting a music store so he could conduct some business. He left me inside in the backseat to listen to the radio, thus would start my little game. On the way, he stopped to get cigarettes at a convenience store. He came back to the car with a present for me – a tiny roll of lifesavers – those little multi-colored round candies with a hole in the center. Yum! There were only five candies in the roll and as my Dad took the first one, I settled in the backseat to enjoy the rest during the ride. As he parked outside music store, his visit was long enough for me to consume three of lifesavers, slowly, letting them melt away to nothing in my mouth as I played my game along the speakers behind the back seat. The last one, a yellow candy, was left in the roll. I made a decision with my cherished last lifesaver. I took the yellow candy out of its package and placed it in a carefully on the mesh car speaker, just center and behind the back seat. My hope was that my sister wouldn’t find it when we got home and it would stay there safe until I could retrieve it later. Just as I put my candy plan into action, my Dad hopped into the car. I quickly slid back into my seated position and off we drove for home, leaving my candy to ride on the speaker.

In the days after that ride, I forgot about my last lifesaver and it remained resting on the mesh speaker screen behind the back seat. Days went by. The sun shining through the back window did not relent and the summer heat beat down through the speaker cover until the lifesaver melted into the mesh fabric. A few days later on my next ride, I hoped into the backseat to retrieve my special treat only to gasp and pull my hand to my mouth. Instead of a perfectly formed yellow lifesaver waiting for me to savor, I saw a melted candy circle mess, on my Dads new speakers, in his brand new Cadillac. I slid and sunk down into the seat, sitting the right way, with my legs dangling off the seat just above the floor mats. My face hung low as I thought of how much trouble I was in now. My Dad’s new car was ruined and it was my fault. I was frozen with fear in my seat, guessing what would happen when he would find out that I was careless and left the candy someplace where it shouldn’t have been. As we left for the ride, I thought about how every business man who would be drive with my Dad would see the mess I had left behind as the trees flew by looking out the window.

My Dad stopped the car in the parking lot of a music store, grabbed his cigarettes and told me to wait. He left the engine on and the radio playing Sammy Davis, Jr’s new song “The Candyman”. I didn’t much care to hear that song right about now – especially since my candy was now the ruin of my Dad’s new special car. It seemed like God was punishing me by playing that particular song at that particular moment. I didn’t feel much like playing my formerly happy game along the back seat speaker. But a plan came to mind. I knelt on the leather back seat anyways, turning to face back to see if I could fix things. Surely, if I tried carefully and quickly, I could remove the candy and my Dad would never ever know, the businessmen would never see it! But hard as I tried, only the surface sticky part came off under my nails as I carefully scratched away the melted round circle on the speaker cover. The evidence however still remained behind. A shadow of a small circle, now about the size of a half dollar was still evident. If you knelt on the back seats, faced backward and looked down, you could see it on the mesh just behind the head rest.

I froze in terror to see that my plan wasn’t working. I could hear my heart beating inside as I took a peek over my shoulder to the window of the store. My Dad was still talking with the music shop owner, leaning on his right elbow and arm on the display case, laughing and smoking a cigarette. My finger nails were now sticky as I tried with both hands to remove the candy and I now, I had nothing to wash them with. Resolving to defeat, I turned around, slid back in the back seat, facing forward in the car and awaited for his return. I was dead now, he would kill me over this offense, and I deserved it. My tears slipped down over my rosy cheeks as I carefully held my hands in my lap so they wouldn’t touch the new leather seats, for fear I would make things worse than they already were.

My Dad walked back from the store visit and must have known that something was wrong. His normally bouncy daughter was anything but bouncy and holding her hands in her lap like a perfect angel. He asked what was wrong as he opened the driver’s door. I broke down and I told the truth between sobs, that I had done something bad, I was at fault and that it had to do with his brand new beautiful car and the back speaker. He came around to the driver side back door, opened it, kneeled on the seat to take a look. I took my left hand and raised it up and over the seat to point out my mistake. I faced and looked forward out the window, I couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in his face.

Even though I was too afraid to look, I probably missed the huge smile on his face when he saw that it was only a small mishap, one that only a small child, kneeling on the seat facing backward could actually see. It had been carefully removed on the screen as best as only a pair of tiny finger nail could etch it away. He said nothing, climbed out of the car, closed the door then jumped into the front seat to drive. I peeked through my bangs to see if he was going to turn back and shout or reprimand me for my poor decision making. He didn’t. He simply put the car in gear without a word and we were soon on our way home, in silence.

“We’re sorry . . . if we caused you any pain.”

At home, I immediately marched myself upstairs without direction, assuming that it was a “no dinner night” for me due to my offense. I could hear my parents talking downstairs but couldn’t make out what they were saying . . . all I could hear was my heart about to beat out of my chest, much like the bass playing I had heard and felt in my hands during the song “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey”.

In the days to come, not much was said about what happened in the car on that ride. I stopped playing my game on the back speaker in my Dad’s car, too afraid to relive my shame to see the candy mark that it made. Next time I was invited for a car ride, I took a small bag with colored pencils and writing tablet so I could put my energy into drawing pictures of the scenes I could see outside my backseat window, as I faced forward and looked at the landscape rushing by. A year or so later, the yellow Coupe De Ville was traded in for a newer model, silver colored Cadillac with black top and cloth seats. My days of playing my hand game on the speakers were over.

“And we’re so easy called away . . . “

Since then, I have heard “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey” a gazillion times and probably have three or four versions of it on my IPod. It is one of my favorite songs of 1970’s. When I hear the down beat of the bass part during its introduction, the memories all comes flooding back. The warmth of the sun as it hit a yellow Cadillac back window, the softness of new car carpeting and the familiar pounding of the bass part that Paul was playing, and to feel the bass blasts through the back speaker mesh. The only thing missing is the Lifesavers. I thought a lot about that as I was waiting in Wrigley field this summer, for an evening concert with 44,000 others. I looked up in the star-lit sky above the ballpark, thinking that my Dad, his car and those lifesavers really weren’t missing. After all, I was in a venue named after man who had a lot to do with candy. So as the concert played on, by the man himself who wrote a wonderful song years ago, I lifted my head to the starlit sky, say thank you to my Dad, now in heaven, for not chewing me out (excuse the pun) over my little transgression in 1971.

I'll Follow the Sun . . .

Chicagoland has been awash in warm temps, blue skies and trees of orange and red as the fall season is in full color. We have enjoyed fabulous weather as of late - 8 straight days of sunshine and high 70 degree temperature. A real treat for us, since already this year we have had a blizzard, an earthquake, a tornado, a major power outage and most recently, the floods of the summer.

With a welcomed day off from work, I woke up and tried to decide what to do with my time. The house is clean, the laundry is done and my bills are pretty much organized for payment. What to do? Every fall I like to embark on days that I call "My Selfish Days", days when there are no kids, no tasks, no errands, thus no worries. In the past, I would spend those days on long rides to DeKalb, the home of my college years, to enjoy walks around the lagoon, a beer nugget or two and trip down memory lane around campus. One other year, I took it upon myself to visit a food shop I wouldn't normally go to, just for a treat. That food shop was Brown's Chicken for a serving of their fried mushrooms. One time, I took the "L" downtown where I connected with Beatles pals for an amazing Beatles adventure.

This year, I decided that my "selfish day" would be spent this day in my car, with the sunroof open to enjoy this beautiful weather. IPod was strategically connected to my car's stereo system and off I was going to go! But first, I had to include a few routine homeowner tasks. My new job, as great as it is, still leaves me only a few full days to get household jobs done. So today, I hopped into my car, sunroof opened and welcomed the bright blue sky, dawned my newly acquired Jackie Kennedy sized black sunglasses and looked toward the wide open opportunity that would be my day on the road.

Sometimes, life is what happens when you are busy making other plans. . .

On the way to my first stop, my call to the village Finance Department to report my water meter reading directed me to voicemail saying offices were closed. Okay, I thought, defer that task for tomorrow. My next stop was to pay the gas bill . . . only to realize when I pulled up to the post office that "oops, no mail service today". Well, foohey, more to do tomorrow I thought! Guess I might as well make my way to Schaumburg for a little shopping. . . but first, there was another bill I could pay while out that way! I was bound and determined to get something accomplished during my selfish day!

However, when I arrived in the parking lot of the Secretary of State's office to renew the license plates stickers for my car and Sarah's, I found the office dark and parking lot empty. Yeap, they were closed too. Foohey . . .

As a reward for all my efforts on this, my selfish day 2011, I decided to visit a large box electronics store splashed in blue and yellow. It had been a while since I last had visited but it was time I treated myself to the new George Harrison/Ravi Shankar boxed CD set. Today, for my selfish day, I was going to give myself a treat.

Sadly, there are now more vacuum cleaners in this store than the rows and rows of CD offerings that they used to offer. Their CD collection displayed as few music offerings as possible, with Blue Ray and other gaming technology encroaching upon their familiar space. No George Harrison CD's, and to say that there might be a boxed set was like shooting a stars. It simply wasn't going to happen! I was going home empty handed.

So I took my sad, sorry soul back to the parking lot, to my nice car, parked under a tree to keep cool from the bright sun, waiting for me to zip back home. However, I forgot to close the sunroof. As I opened the car door, both the passenger and the driver seats were full of fallen leaves. Sometimes you just have to sweep a few leaves out of your car to enjoy an open sunroof.

(Post script-I did not arrive home empty handed. On my way home, I stopped at Costco who had the latest George Harrison book "Life in the Material World" on sale for half price. I snapped a copy up and brought it home to enjoy.)

Let me take you down, 'cause I am going to . . . . Wrigley Field!

For many years, there has been a rumor chasing around Chicago that Paul McCartney would come back to tour but only visit small, intimate halls or theaters. Today, he made good on that rumor and announced two dates when he will perform along the historic ivy of a baseball icon, Wrigley Field. Hopefully, someone won't buy the Cubs in the meantime and change the name of the park before the concert. But I digress.

Paul has visited Chicago with three different groups - The Beatles in 1964, 1965 and 1966; with Wings in in 1976 and with a never ending collection of musicians during his solo efforts in 1989 and 1993. After his wife Linda passed in 1998, there were thoughts that he would never tour again - how could he without Linda? In 2002, he returned to the stage with his Driving USA tour and followed it up in 2005 with the Back in the US tour. He made several appearances in other cities in the late 2000's but Chicago was not a tack on the map for a stop.

When did I first see a Beatle perform live?? Well, not in the 1960's. Preschoolers normally didn't attend rock concerts in that day nor would my Dad spend the $5 for my ticket - that I am sure. In 1976, I was interested in all the news coverage of Paul's Wings Over America tour, stayed up late to see appearances on the Tomorrow show and the Midnight Special, but still too young to attend anything like a rock concert in my parent's eyes. In 1989,as a newly married twentysomething, I wanted and had planned to go, but with my due date for my first child was only weeks away and seemed a bit silly to be bumping into folks unintendedly while dancing in the aisle. Didn't think that would be too lady like a move on my part. By the time 1993 came around, with two children under the age of 4 and mounting bills, responsible parenthood made me give up the idea of ever seeing a Beatle perform live. I was turning 30 that year, and something about turning that age made me think that perhaps, my concert going days were now behind me.

In spring 2002, everything changed with one email.

I was by then a successful mom of two pre-teen girls, a girl scout leader, church and school volunteer and part-time employee. The news of Paul's return to America with new music and new band was more than I could bear. When I heard that Chicago was a stop, my heart sank at every news report about ticket sales. One morning, as I listened to the radio, I couldn't take it any more. Spike O'Dell, Chicago's number one radio personality in the morning and like-minded Beatles fan was sharing on the air about how he had tickets - how his whole family had tickets and how they were just so excited about going to see the show. His enthusiasm and his glee over having those tickets made me just about throw my radio out the window until a thought occurred to me. I was going to send him a sort of "Beatles" cease and desist notice - from one fan to the other.

On that fateful Tuesday morning, just two days before the first Paul McCartney concert performance, I had enough of Spike's joy and excitement that could not be contained. I sent an email, polite in wording but stern in message. "Spike, you must stop sharing with your audience your happiness about having the Paul McCartney tickets. I am a girl scout leader and mom of two so my chances of ever seeing Paul in concert are zero and quite frankly, I just can't take hearing about it any longer!" I stepped away from my computer to take the girls to school, satisfied that if anything, my plea was sitting somewhere out there in the vast internet universe.

A few hours later, I returned to my desk and opened my email to see if there were any new messages. There was a reply message from Spike. "I have got two tickets, do you want to go? You will have to pay for them, but you can have them. If you want them, give me your number and we can talk!"

What???

It was a Tuesday morning and the concert was in two days, on Thursday.

After a few more back and forth emails, Spike arranged for me to go to the radio station on Thursday morning to pick up the tickets. I nearly emptied my saving account and took the train to Chicago to meet him at the WGN studios. A time was set to meet at about 8:30 am, during the news break while Spike was off air. I signed in at the security desk in the Wrigley building and was escorted by a staff member through the offices of WGN to Studio B, the non-Michigan Avenue facing studio. When I turned a corner near the engineering studio, there was Spike, full of life and excitement with the two tickets in hand. I paid him the face dollar of the tickets and started to cry. He gave me a big hug and said that I could come into the studio for the next segment to see how the show was pulled together. So for nearly 10 minutes, I sat in the corner, next to Sports Direct Dave Enett as they broadcasted from Michigan Avenue on WGN. The tickets were in my hand and I looked down on the floor while the "on-air" light was on for fear I may cough or sneeze and that it might be heard on the air. I was thrilled with the invitation to join them both to see them work, which didn't seem like a lot of work since they laughed their heads off the whole time!

After Spike's show ended and before I left the studio, I gave Spike a present for being so kind to me. I knew of his Beatles collection in the basement of his house and thought I could add something he might not have had. I had 10 Beatle harmonica cases, produced with a harmonica and book as a Beatles collectible in the 1960's. They came originally from my Dad's warehouse, when he worked for Hohner, the famous harmonica manufacturer in the 1970's. I decided to give Spike one of those collectible cases. He thanked me for the gift, told me it was a pleasure to meet me and said "so now I will see you again at the concert!" He challenged me with one last question. "Can I talk about going to the show now on the air?" he quipped. Yeah, I thought that was okay.

On a Thursday night in April, 2002, I got to see a Paul McCartney Concert, my first Beatles live performance. The show started with the song "Hello, Goodbye" and that's when I started to shake and started to cry. It made me think of me back in the day, sitting alone in my bedroom with a record player, listening to Hello Goodbye for probably a hundred times while pouring over the front and backs of the record cover. Now, this suburban mom of two was hearing the songwriter himself sing the song to 25,000 people at Chicago's, United Center. I quickly took out the bank withdrawal slip that I got when I took my savings out to pay for the tickets to jot down the set list as the concert progressed. I wanted to properly remember it all after the concert ended.

In 2002, at the age of 39, I started going to Rock Concerts. I saw Paul twice that year in Chicago - once with the tickets Spike had given me and then later on in the fall when the tour came back and made a return visit. In 2005, I saw Paul's Back in the US show at the United Center, surrounded by Beatles friends dotted all over the stadium. My first Ringo Starr live concert was also close to home at the Rosemont Theater in 2006 with his All Starr tour stop. I ran into all sorts of Beatles friends at that show and made some new ones as well. In 2009, I got to see Ringo and Paul perform on the same stage for the first time in 40 years at the David Lynch Foundation fundraising concert not in Chicago, but in New York City. At that show, my seat ended up right next to The Fest for Beatles Fan organizers, Mark & Carol Lapidos. To the left of me was a lovely couple, in their early 60's from Virginia, life long Beatles fans. We chatted before the show started about our mutual good taste in music. When the concert started, they held hands and never let go.

Now the big announcement has come and it is time for me to see another Beatle perform his music live and on stage. Wrigley Field seems a nice enough venue and I hope I get a good seat. Won't matter where I end up tho, I will be dancing in the aisle, making new friends and visiting with old Beatles pals and having the time of my life at age 48.

When I find myself . . in times of trouble. . .

Recently, someone asked me how I became such a Beatle-aholic. How or when did all this craziness get its start? Because of my age, some think that I must be a second generation fan - one that became aware of The Beatles in the 1970's, after the breakup. Truth be told, I am a first generation fan - from the very beginning when it was all happening in the 1960's.

Detroit, Michigan was my home for the first decade of my life - the 1960's. My Dad was the manager of a musical instrument store that was located on the posh and happening Woodward Avenue in the heart of Detroit's downtown shopping district. My Mom was a homemaker and part time organ/piano teacher. As a toddler, she would take me with her as she taught her students in their own home. My Dad would take me to his work sometimes and afterward, to the local tavern down the street for an after hour cocktail.


My Dad's office had a storefront on Woodward Avenue, with big glass windows and a glass door that shook a tiny hand bell when opened. The store had two separate offices behind the display area with a storage warehouse behind them in the back. Shiny new electric guitars were either propped on tiny stands in the window or hung carefully on the walls. Drum kits were on the floor along the side wall and the opposite wall had a glass case with tiny finger cymbals, mouth organs, tambourines and maracas. When I would visit my father at work, he was talking on the phone a lot which was kinda boring so I would hang out in the back with the warehouse men - "the guys". Their job was to prepare the merchandise, the guitars, drums, and the rest of the musical inventory for shipping or for display. The "guys" had darker skin than I had and they could never walk into the front of the store. They only stayed in the back, inside the warehouse portion. The guys would tune and play the guitars to make sure everything was in order. My Dad could come and go from the front of the store to the warehouse and so could I. When I came to visit the warehouse, the "guys" would play and sing some songs while I skipped and danced along to their delight. At three, I was quite the ham and enjoyed the songs that they played, mostly from motown and top ten selections. I am sure that "I Want to Hold Your Hand" and "Can't Buy Me Love", best selling Beatles songs at the time were part of the chosen pieces.

After hours, my Dad would bring me with him to the local neighborhood tavern for a festive adult beverage before heading just a few blocks to our rented first floor apartment. I remember the outside, wooden door my Dad would push through with the diamond window near the top. I could only see through the diamond window if my Dad would hold me up in his arms. The inside of the tavern was dark, with a wood paneled interior, with only the neon beer advertising posted above the bar to light the room. There were tall, padded stools along the long wooden bar, too high for me to reach or crawl up to sit. My Dad would sit on a stool, but I couldn't. Since I couldn't reach the stool to climb up and be a part of the conversation, I would instead listen to the music playing from the standing jukebox and pull the cigarette selectors on the cigarette vending machine by the door with the little window.

I am sure "Day Tripper" and "Eleanor Rigby" was played at the bar. The songs sounded familiar, like what the guys played in the warehouse.

My Mom tells me that during her organ and piano lessons, she would have her hands full with students who didn't want to learn the classics - Bach, Brahams, Beethoven, they were too interested in the new Beatles single. How about "All My Loving" or "She Loves You"? they would ask.

At home, my Dad had a box radio that he kept on his nightstand. The yellow wooden box had two dials on the front - one for the radio station selector and one for the clock. My Mom would tell me to nap on the bed and sleep until the pointer moved toward the very top. She turned on the radio to a pop music station for me to fall asleep by. I listened to hours of motown - to Sam Cook, Stevie Wonder, Diana Ross, the Temptations, but I also listened to top ten - The Monkeys, Dave Clark Five, The Four Seasons and The Beatles. I don't remember napping very much but laying quietly, listening. It is no wonder that when Detroit's top Children's TV show, Ooopsie the Clown played "I want to Hold Your Hand" as a puppet moved its mouth to the lyrics, I took notice and sang along.

But the "bug" really didn't hit me or became something I was aware of until I was in early elementary school. By then, we had survived the 1967 Detroit riots, but just barely. My Mom convinced my Dad to move us to the suburbs for safety rather than living in our downtown apartment. I didn't see the "guys" in the warehouse any more after we left. We moved to a northwest suburb of Detroit, just a few miles northwest of town. In 1969, I was sent to a local public school and became friends with kids (instead of the "guys" in the warehouse) that lived on my block, one being a girl in my class whose name was Ana Lia, the youngest of six children. She lived five houses away from me and her home was the most interesting I had ever seen. She had one older sister and four older brothers between 15 and 7. Tina was Ana Lia's oldest sibling of the family and at 17, she was in high school. And she was cool!

Tina had a room all to herself since she was the oldest and sometimes, she would let her kid sister, Ana Lia bring her goofy friend from down the street, Annette, into her room to listen to new records. I remember seeing the albums, at least 20 or so, stacked neatly against her bedroom wall, right by the open top record player that sat on a white wicker side table on top of long green shag carpeting. Her room had pink walls with big psychedelic flower stickers. There was a flower sticker on her ceiling, right over her bed. She didn't have a bed on a frame like I had. Her bed was on the floor, usually unmade, with yellow daisy sheets. She also had a bean bag chair and beads strung on strings that she used in her doorway instead of a door.

Tina would sometimes watch Ana Lia and I after school until Ana Lia's mom would come home from work. Tina's favorite trick to share with us was how to sneak little bits of ice cream by taking spoons, handing them to us and letting us dig out tastes from the carton itself, rather than have it served in a dish, like we had at my house. I thought I was so cool, scooping those little tiny spoonfuls of vanilla ice cream, thinking Ana Lia's mother would never know, because we hadn't dirtied any dishes.



But Tina's great teaching lesson was sharing music and the pop records of the time. She had the new album, "Tommy", by The Who with its blue diamonds on the front, like the old neighborhood tavern door I used to go to with my Dad. There were colorful ones like "Sgt. Pepper" & "Yellow Submarine" and others by Bob Dylan, Jefferson Airplane and Janis Joplin. The cover I liked was the black cover with the photos of four faces on the front know as The Beatles "Let it Be". She would play the record for us as we dug tiny scoops of ice cream out of the cartons and as I got to sit in the bean bag chair, singing along to the songs. Tina knew every word or every song. She would lay back on her bed with her crocheted blue poncho covering her white shirt and her lime green polyester pants that stopped right before her ankles. Tina never wore buckle mary jane leather shoes like me, she got to wear sandals where everyone got to see her toes.


So as Ana Lia and I enjoyed school together with our Dick and Jane readers, fall turned into winter and our class began preparing for Christmas. We decorated carefully cut green construction paper to make Christmas trees for our teach to tape to the wall. My teacher said that our parents were going to come to our school, look at our class rooms and our desks then head to the gym where we would sing a song for them. All the classrooms in our school would get a song to sing.

One day, before the parent's visit, our class walked from our room to the gym where we would rehearse our song. We were to sing standing on the stage in the gym, standing high above the classmates seated in their chairs, facing us on the gym floor. When not on stage, Anna Lia and I sat together clicking our mary janes together to the beat of the songs. Each class, one by one, would rise from their seats, carefully walk to the front of the gym where there was a few stairs leading to a curtain on a stage. I was at the end of the line of my classmates as we rose from our seats and carefully walked up the side wooden stairs. Once on stage, I was closest to the stairs that we just so carefully and quietly practiced marching up.

Once on stage, we faced the audience and our class song to sing was "Let it Snow". The school music teacher, standing on the gym floor before us, had a pointy stick in her hands that she waved. She stood in front of the rest of the school children who were seated on their metal folding chairs.

I started to sing:

"Oh, the weather outside is frightful,
But in here, its so delightful,
So since we have no place to go,
Let it be, Let it be, Let it be . . ."

"STOP!!!!" Cried the teacher, her hand now down at her sides, her nose scrunched, her voice angry. Some of the children seated in the metal chairs drew their hands to their mouths to giggle softly as she reprimanded.

"Try again, children, please sing the right words . . " She rose her hands with one poking the stick in the air a little higher than the other.

"Oh the weather outside is frightful
But in here, it so delightful,
So since we have no place to go
Let it Be, Let it Be, Let it Be!"

The children on the gym floor started laughing louder. Now, my classmates started laughing . .

"Whisper Words of Wisdom . . . " I kept singing, but this time I was singing all by myself. I stopped, realizing I was the only one singing . . . I took a look to the right and my classmates were all looking at me in silent disbelief, some now laughing.

"STOP! Annette!" The teacher took a few steps toward me. "You are singing the wrong words!"

No I'm not, I thought, I am singing Let it Be - that song about "Mother Mary" and how "she comes to me", the same one in the Christmas story, right? I remember Tina singing it perfectly along with the record.

The teacher on the gym floor ripped her thick framed glasses away from her face as she walked closer toward me and to the stage, away from the rows of noticeably giggling children. "The words are 'Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it SNOW!!!!' Now try again." She turned away from me, replaced her glasses and resumed her original spot in front of the stage. She was mad! The children stopped laughing as she faced them in her return walk to her position.

I looked down at my shoes in embarrassment and shame. No one ever looked that mean at me when there was music around. I thought the words were from "Let it Be". That was the song I knew, not this other one about kissing and corn popping and finding it hard to say goodbye. That song, I didn't learn from the guys in the warehouse, the tavern with the cigarette machine or the radio by the bed.

We finished rehearsing the song on the stage but I simply was mouthing the words, not letting the air escape my lungs for fear I would start to cry. I stoically lead the class back down from the stage to our seats on the gym floor while passing by pointed fingers and hearing snickers from the other students. I was now the girl who didn't know the words to a song that they all knew. Anna Lia didn't let me come over to her house that afternoon. She was busy doing something else she said.

So "Let it Be" and "Let it Snow" have powerful meanings for me. It was the right song for me to sing on that stage in late 1970 and still is today. I have played Let it Snow many times when I played the French Horn, for band holiday concerts in junior high and high school, doing so without a hitch. I have listened to Let it Be for hundreds of times and have at least six versions of it saved on my IPod. When I hear that tune, the song always brings me back to the days of my buckle leather mary jane shoes, my earliest memories of stacked rock albums leaning against the wall and tiny scoops of ice cream on a spoon, taken right from of the carton.