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Losing One of the Fab Four and Finding a Father's Love
by Candice
This has been an Autumn of losses hasn't it?
Before it had even arrived, there were losses that hadn't been calculated or collected in the American consciousness since December 7, 1941. My father had been ailing all this past summer, but we thought we were over a hump of setbacks and on the road to a tentative rallying when Sept. 11 totally took my father's will to live from him.
He had been a career Port Authority police officer, and as part of that family, this tragedy was a personal assault and he slid downward fast, dying on September 25. Like a zombie, I absorbed his loss with the larger one and Autumn kept going forward, like a Energizer bunny gone haywire.
Where was all this sunshine coming from? Where did November go? We just had one long 60 days of October, glorious weather we all felt somehow was justifiably and rightfully ours, an atonement from the Gods for all they had taken from us in September. When George Harrison died on November 28th, the grayness was finally settling in, on the landscape, on my heart, on an America still in mourning. For me, this loss was another slap in my face.
Of all the people I have met in my life, by far, the Beatles and my father were the most important, the biggest influences. That there should be such a loss to me in this one season brought me full circle in dealing with myself and my father. All too often throughout my life, I couldn't or wouldn't see his love. Other things got in the way, other people obscured my view. What I saw as overwhelming ego and power pushing me into corners I didn't want to go, what I saw as complete inability to see me as woman, a person and not just as a child who refused to be obedient now became embedded in my guilts and my own pathetic attempts to justify hurting him back for hurts I had only imagined.
Memories are strange friends, they can be either warm and companionable or they can attack you and leave you knocked senseless on the floor. My life with my father often reduced me to memories of the latter kind, and I suffered all of autumn, getting beaten up by them. Then George Harrison died, and the former memories came rushing in....all the hopeful joy and exuberance and sheer ecstatic delight of being a Beatlemaniac came rushing forward. Oddly enough, this most wonderful memory I am about to tell you concerns both the Beatles and my dad and since he is no longer here to vouch for the veracity of this little tale, you will just have to believe. Believe in the power of being young, in the power of
Beatlemania and believe in the power of love.
Well, I was just sixteen... you know what I mean? And the way I looked was cute beyond compare! Back in the sixties, my role models were Twiggy, Jane Asher, Patti Boyd. We all had tons of eye makeup and bangs down to our noses. Jane, Patti and I had long long hair, which I often opted to wear in two long pigtails that looked like horses manes sprouting from the top of my head. All the better to pony and frug with in my white go-go boots. I couldn't have been mod-der if I had been born on Carnaby Street.
It was such a fun time to be sixteen. I spoke with a flawless English accent, I used only Yardley oatmeal soap on my flawless young skin and I couldn't have been more infatuated with the Beatles. I adored them. I didn't have a favorite, I wanted them all. I lived them, breathed them, ingested them, I knew everything there was to know about them.
I bought every magazine article on them, I kept a fastidious Beatle scrapbook, I hoarded my Hard Day's Night bubblegum cards, I wrote Beatle's stories with my friends....sheer fantasy tales where we would miraculously bump into them somewhere and they all, of course, would fall madly in love with me and my friends and we have wonderful Beatle adventures that wind up with divorces for John, George and Ringo so we all get married and live happily ever after (Paul was the last Beatle to get married. In 1966 he was still very single). When I heard they were coming to Shea Stadium, I started pestering my dad to go, but I should have known no amount of pestering would budge him on the Beatles.
My father was firmly in the "They are only a flash in the pan" camp. Couple that with his militant Irish heritage and hatred for all things British, and you can imagine how thrilled he was when he caught me yakking on the phone to my "mates" in best British mode and every penny I spent on the Beatles going to bolster an English economy he saw as crippling and stifling Ireland. (Didn't matter one whit that three of them were of Irish heritage, nope, they were English and the enemy!)
When they appeared on Ed Sullivan, the threat was if I moved, if I uttered one sound I would summarily be sent to my room. When I was 14, all I wanted was a stereo for my birthday, which I did get, but on which only played Ruby Murray, Bridie O'Gallagher, The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, Brendan O'Dowda and John McCormack. The Beatles had five albums out before I was allowed to purchase one, and I could only play it when dad wasn't home.
True to form for the most die-hard Beatlemaniac, I knew every move they made and when they were going to make it, and after all my temper tantrums had been ignored and my tear stained cheeks had rusted my steel rimmed Lennon specs, it dawned on me I had one last chance to take advantage of this historic occasion. My father was a Port Authority police officer, and all the New York City airports were run by the NY-NJ Port of Authority. I had lost the war to go to the concert, but the final battle had yet to be waged.
I decided the guilt attack would work best. All my friends were going, I was going to be the ONLY kid on the Eastern Seaboard who was going to miss the concert, my dad's cruel and unusual restrictions on my ability to enjoy the Fab Four were downright flagrant assaults on my human rights and my rights as an American to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Thomas Jefferson himself had guaranteed me that right and my father was denying me my basic rights as a citizen.
Hadn't he any guilt or shame, didn't he think such blatant hatred of an ethnic group was unfounded since three quarters of the Beatles were of Irish heritage, didn't he realize he was molding my mind and teaching me intolerance? Didn't he know I was going to be a social pariah, the only kid not going to the concert? I was going to be labeled as un-cool, un-hip? That I might suffer a huge identity crisis over this and might be scarred for life. Didn't he realize I might never recover and might hate him forever for this cruelty and insensitivity? Didn't my dad think he should really make it up to me? Try to mend some fences?
Three days of this and my father cracked. "ENOUGH ALREADY! WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DO?" He offered to get me a press packet from his friends that worked the airports. All major groups that arrived in NYC had press agents that handed out packets and folders of clippings, pictures, information to the various media clamoring at their heels. I had already gotten Peter and Gordon, Herman's Hermits, the Animals. He would see if his pals could scare up something from the Beatles tour group.
No, I decided that wouldn't do it, I had every snippet of information anyone had ever printed on them and he knew it. No, there was only one way to make amends. Bring me to LaGuardia when they came in from the Chicago concert. I could see them in person and know that NONE of my friends could have gotten that close, and he would have the satisfaction of knowing he had made up for his blatant, unwise attempts to thwart my right to practice Beatlemania.
Until this very day, I didn't know why or even what could have prompted him to go along with this plan. Lord knows, it was going to be slightly inconvenient. You figure, the concert was going to end around 10 pm in Chicago. They get whisked to the airport, they load up the luggage, they get everyone aboard and they probably wouldn't get to NYC before 2 am, even in a private jet.
My dad was known to pass out in his favorite chair by 8 PM. Why he decided to bring me was a complete mystery. I just chalked it up to being a spoiled brat. As an only child, I usually had a knack for getting my way and I figured I had just worn him out pleading and begging and crying. So, there I was, actually getting ready to go to LaGuardia. In typical 16 year old style, I dressed in the cutest thing I owned. It was a hot and muggy New York night, so I donned my little pink sundress, with little puffed gingham sleeves, adorable little gingham ruffled hem and the just too sweet gingham sunflower that sprouted on the front of the dress the total epitome of cute. Add in my long mane pigtails and I passed for all of 13 that night. I totally ignored my mother's suggestion to dress in my nice Easter suit, also pink, but at least a bit more mature looking. I had cause to rue that decision as you will soon see.
In my excitement, did I remember to bring a camera to record this momentous night? No, but I did remember to bring along a picture I had drawn of Paul, hoping to get an autograph. We took off at midnight and arrived at LaGuardia where my dad explained the game plan to the officers in charge of the private area of the field where they would land. He was gone quite a while and when he returned he explained I wouldn't be allowed out on the field. There were two other girls there who had figured this out, but they were alone. We would be kept behind the fence and that was that. I was appalled when I walked over to the fence. It seemed miles away from the tarmac area where the press was already setting up lights and milling around.
I put up a vociferous fight. This was not fair and unacceptable. Why was I being treated like these other two girls who didn't have a daddy who was a cop and why couldn't he guarantee me a better vantage point? I put on my best pout and flounced back to the car and decided to boycott the whole idea. Now I was upset, and getting tired. The strain was taking it's toll. I started getting stomach cramps. My dad disappeared and I just felt worse and worse by the minute. The cramps segued into a wonderful bout of diarrhea and by 3 am I was done in, totally sick and tired and wanted to go home. I had spent almost 2 hours in the car by myself, feeling miserable.
My dad appeared and explained the change of plans. Now I was to be put in a police squad car. The tower had gotten news the plane was arriving. I was to sit in the police car and they would drive the car out onto the tarmac, but I was to stay IN THE CAR! I perked up a bit. Okay, this was sounding a bit better! I made a final trip to the bathroom, I remember leaning against the cool green tiles and just thanking God for this very moment and asking for the cramps to please stop! I was escorted to the police cruiser and as I got settled, a certain Lieutenant Somebody reminded me I was to stay in the car. I was introduced to Officer Bible, the driver, and put in the front seat with him. My dad was in the back seat.
At almost 4 am the plane landed and hordes of media descended on the field. This was it, I was going to see my heroes! I kept my eyes fixed on the hatchway door and when it opened, my stomach did a flip flop. I remember just sitting and staring, not blinking. Holding my breath for the imminent arrival of the Fab Four. Nothing happened. The staircase was there, the cameras, lights were all on and where the heck were they?
I'm sure now it was only a matter of a minute or two, but right then, it seemed like we had fallen into a black hole and I was being swallowed whole in disappointment. Then it happened! People, strange people started to emerge, who the heck they were, I had no clue. The entourage, the friends and guests, the DJs and promoters: People just kept piling out of that plane. I decided this wasn't going to work for me at all.
This was insane, how could I just sit here? I turned to my dad and said," I can't sit here, I just can't, I'm getting out, I'm going closer," and no one said a word when I opened the door and got out. I was a good 500 feet away from the plane and the place was a madhouse of press and media. I started wending my way through the crowd, slowly, carefully. I didn't want to stand out, but how many reporters were there dressed in pink puffy sleeves and pigtails? I was right next to the stairs, I was just craning my neck to get a good look up and decided to try to move further down when they appeared.
I felt my body leaving the asphalt, I wasn't moving, but some sort of an out-of-body force had taken over and I don't think I was breathing, I don't think to this day I was really here on earth. This had to be heaven. There they were. The Beatles, not just people, it was hair, all that hair, gorgeous, beautiful mounds of hair, shining, gleaming, glimmering hair, black as the sky above them. I was dumbstruck... oh my Lord! They were so skinny! George was so skinny! Ringo was wearing wide striped pants. They looked like prison issue and his hair was so long and shaggy. And George had on this amazing suede jacket, all fringed everywhere and his head was even poufier with hair, longer hair, longest hair I had ever seen. And there was John, the legend, the leader, in black. Where was Paul? Where was Paul?
I started inching further down the side of the stairway, trying to get a better vantage to look into the plane...Some people were in the doorway I didn't recognize. Reporters were crowding in all around me, Ringo started down the stairs. I'm squeezing between people. Where's Paul? Where's Paul? Darn, I forgot my portrait of him! Where the heck is Paul... OH MY GOSH! There he is!
He's...
All of a sudden, a white glove closes on my puffy sleeved shoulder, a white glove made of iron is now steering me away from the stairs and a voice is saying, "I thought you were told to stay in that car," and the glove is pushing me further away and Ringo is just stepping off the stairs and all of a sudden I knew the glove would keep me from my destiny, and I knew that this was it, that I didn't want to scream or act like a typical teenager, but there I was, typically panicking like any child being denied their obsessive desire and then I heard the scream. "Ringo!! Ringo...help me! Ringo! I love you, I love you!" and it was ME!
I was screaming and the glove was now a whole body coming between me and Ringo and I was fighting and kicking and screaming and crying and pleading and acting worse than any two year old. And as I was being dragged away by my pigtails, Ringo turns to the noise and smiles and points five hundred rings on his fingers at ME and says, "OOH, they nabbed ya luv!" and now I am sobbing and hysterical and hyperventilating and being dragged and thrown into the squad car. And my father is sitting there laughing his darn fool head off and Officer Bible is laughing his equally darn fool head off and I am sobbing and choking and totally out of control, watching the rest of the Beatles now on the tarmac.
And plotting my next move, I wipe the tears from my eyes and I grab Officer Bible's arm. "Turn this car around, can't you? Drive it over to the waiting limousine. I'll stay in the car, but just get this car closer to the limousine and I'll stop screaming and I'll stop crying... just do it, do it NOW! PULLLLEEEEEZE!" It may have been the desperation in my voice, it may have been the tears streaming down my cheeks, it may have been the totally wild maniacal look in my eye, but Officer Bible did as he was told, he turned that engine over and drove the car right next to the limousine.
Now mind you, my father is still sitting in the back seat, laughing hysterically and I roar at my father, "SHUT UP and MOVE! MOVE OVER!" and me in my little pink sundress climbs ever so unladylike over the front seat into the back and I roll down the window and I lean out the squad car and I start banging on the limo window.
Nothing happens.
I am pounding and pounding and all of a sudden, the window opens a crack and two gorgeous blue eyes are staring at me. It was Ringo. The window comes half way down and he smiles, "Oh, are you off to the poke?" And I smile back and wipe my tears away, "Oh no, this is my dad, he's a cop and he brought me over here cause he wouldn't let me go to your concert cause he hates your guts and thinks you are a bad influence on me... daddy, say hi to Ringo and say you are sorry." and I punch my father and my father is still laughing his head off and he waves at Ringo and Ringo waves back.
I am looking in the limo. I see George and John. George looks over and smiles, a smile so full of white teeth I didn't know anyone could have so many teeth, and I smile back and I think it was Mal Evans who then said hi and someone else said hi and in the background, John and George are arguing just who should get the title of Worst Influence to Corrupt the Innocent. I start blubbering, "Oh Ringo, this is the best day of my life, do you have any idea how much I love you, where the heck is Paul?
I didn't get a good look at Paul, I have a picture here I drew of him and I wanted him to sign it." The window started going back up. "Sorry luv, he's feeling a bit under the weather, had an upset on the plane. Ta for now, thanks for coming." Different voices, someone says, "Bye Dad!" I think I hear John say, "Who's the bird?" the window shuts. I start crying again. It was all just too much. I had talked to Ringo and George, they had smiled at me, I had been breathing the same air as they had, I had had my moment with the most incredible people on this planet. I sank back onto the back seat, still crying and sobbing.
My father is starting to look worried, "Jesus Mary and Joseph!" he exclaims, "You better calm down right now or I'll see to it you never buy another album as long as you live! Crimminey!" And he gets out the back seat, gets in the front with Officer Bible and they start chatting as we drive off the field. I don't know what was said, I don't remember getting out the police car and into ours. I don't remember the trip back to New Jersey. I just went into shock I think. It was the greatest thing to ever happen to me and I think I just replayed it over and over and over again in my mind's eye-- hair and fringe and blue eyes and
teeth and voices and precious minutes, seconds of simple joy, suspended in
forever belief, eternal love, incredibly aware that it wasn't a dream, they
were real, I was real, their hair was real.
And it didn't matter I didn't bring a camera, because those few seconds were forever mine, I could pull up the memory and be forever young and remember belief was once possible, everything was once possible. Just a few seconds where all hopes converged and a dream came true. It also helps now to remember this memory
as a father's gift to a now middleaged daughter.
My father's death left questions unanswered between us, issues unresolved and a continuous river of guilt I couldn't help drowning in day after day. Guilt from not being grateful enough or thin enough or aware enough of all he had really meant to me and there were still some terrible memories lingering from my fifty years where I know I disappointed this man and wondered if he had loved me at all, understood me at all.
And with just this one special memory, I now know the truth I refused to see for a lifetime: My father loved me and made sure I had this night to hold in my heart forever. He stayed up until 5 am, he was probably bored to tears, he could have cared less about seeing John, George, Paul and Ringo, but he sat at an airport for five hours for me. This is forever mine, this gift from him. A memory, a moment in history I cherish above all others. I can tell you now, I still love them, yeah yeah yeah! And I know my dad loved me. Yeah, he did.
Thank you daddy, I love you too.
©2001 Candice
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