The story of John Lennon’s death is widely known. Late on the evening of December 8th in 1980, John Lennon was returning to his residence at the Dakota in Manhattan’s upper west side, when he was shot and killed by Mark David Chapman. His death was a shock to the entire world. And although I was only five years old, I also remember this tragedy.
I often tell people that John Lennon’s death is one of my first childhood memories. I claim to recall this event quite vividly but my family often disputes my childhood memories, and I won’t be a bit surprised if they also dispute this one. I used to tell people how I remembered being at my parents wedding, which took place 5 years before I was born. The memory is in black and white in my mind. I can recall my mother in a simple white dress, my father in a black suit with a flower in his lapel. I was only a toddler so when the music started, they handed me to someone in one of the front pews of the church and then together, walked toward the altar. The odd thing is that I can’t bring to mind my older sister being there. My parents laugh this off, dismissing the scandal this would surely create if I were correct.
I also remember a time when my mother took me to Emily Lake when I was little. We were walking on the beach, just the two of us, when we came across an old man with a monkey. I believe he was an organ grinder. I was curious about the monkey and when I got closer to him, he jumped upon my shoulders. I was terrified and ran away with my arms flailing to make the monkey get off of me. There was a cloud of dust and then the monkey was gone. My mother asserts that we never went to Emily Lake without my father and sister, and that I never met an organ grinder. But I am sure of it.
This is my memory of John Lennon’s death. It was early in the morning and my mother and I were watching public television while folding laundry. Dixie, our white poodle, barked happily as my father pulled up outside on a break from his job. Excitedly I ran to the door to greet him. He hastily brushed past me and told my mother to turn on the news. I followed them into the living room where my mother quickly turned the dial to a news channel. They both sat silently in front of the TV, listening to the report already in progress. Feeling ignored, I demanded “What’s going on?” I tugged at my father’s pants pocket. He didn’t respond. His eyes looked red and tired. “Mom,” I whined, “what happened?” She appeared not to have heard me. I repeated myself, only louder this time. Still she did not answer. It was only on my forth inquiry that my mother, tears in her eyes, acknowledge me. “Shut up!” she snapped. I felt as though I had been slapped. My mother, a very mild mannered woman whose worst curse word, the British “bloody,” had used a phrase forbidden in our house. I was stunned into silence. I busied myself with my Digger the Dog toy and waited for someone to pay attention to me. I didn’t understand what the reporter was talking about; I just recall the sadness in the room. This had to be bad news. Eventually my father went back to work and left mom and I alone. I don’t remember exactly what she said to me but I know she explained that someone very important in the world had died. He was a singer and many, many people loved him. It wasn’t until much later in my life I understood the significance of this event.
During those early years, when my sister, Jenn, born 3 years ahead of me, had started school and my father had transitioned from working at the local Holiday gas station to working as a head janitor for the school district, my mother and I spent hours together at home. I recall those days as days of discovery, happily spent with my mom. Small details come to mind, such as working in the garden, watching Picture Pages, and buying boysenberry yogurt and Kit Kat bars at the corner store across the street. I couldn’t tell you what we did most days, hours stretched out before us. But I do remember the music.
I spent hours and hours of my childhood playing in front of our family record player. Occasionally my interest would shift from whatever toy I had to the vinyl records stored beneath the player. I loved to hold the old 45s in my small hands, letting my fingers pop through the hole in the middle. There was one 45 in particular that I liked to play with. Most of the records were just black discs with grooves and words I couldn’t read. But this one had a picture and it quickly became the most special record of them all. In the center of the record was a large green apple, perfectly cut down the middle. I would flip it over and over and look at that apple, mesmerized by the picture on both sides.
On especially exciting days, my mother would play some of these records for me. I loved to listen to the songs with catchy lyrics like “love me do” and “I saw her standing there.” Some of the lyrics didn’t make sense like “take the back righter.” It wasn’t until I was in fifth grade that my mother explained to me that the lyrics were actually “paperback writer.” I loved to listen to songs about Rocky Raccoon, yellow submarines, singing blackbirds, and revolutions. My mother enjoyed other songs about weeping guitars and a girl named Michelle.
The LPs were not as fascinating to me as the 45s. I couldn’t fit my fingers through the center hole, so I was left with balancing the record on one tiny finger carefully placed in the middle of the record. Sometimes the pressure of the vinyl on my tiny fingers would hurt, and I would have to put them away. There was one LP however that I was particularly drawn to. It was different than all the other larger records in their colorful, pictured sleeves. This one was completely white. The lack of color made it different and intriguing to me. When you opened the album, it unfolded like a book. Inside there were pictures scattered across the pages. I spent hours looking at those pictures. There were funny pictures, and serious pictures. Some pictures showed the men with long, shaggy hair and funny clothes, while others portrayed them in black and white suits, clean cut with short hair. One of the photos always caught my interest. It was a long haired man sitting cross legged on a stark, white bed. It didn’t look like he was wearing any clothing, just a thick, dark necklace. He was talking on the phone. Lying next to him was an Asian woman sound asleep. I wondered what this man was talking about so early in the morning that this woman would still be sleeping. Why didn’t he wear any clothing? How did he know the exotic woman next to him? Were they friends? Was she wearing clothes? Why was his hair so long?
I would make up stories about the pictures and the people in them. As I grew older, my interests shifted and new secrets from the album would reveal themselves to me. I can recall the first time I noticed the doodle in the upper corner of one of the pages. For years I thought it was just a scribble, and then one day my eye was drawn to something new about it. The doodle was of naked people, a man and a woman. I snickered to myself, sure my mother had not noticed this. As I learned to read, I like to test my skills out on the printed lyrics sheet. Again, the album revealed new secrets to me. I discovered lyrics like “Why don’t we do it in the road?” Certainly my mother hadn’t read this. And if she did, she must not have understood it.
There was one song she played during our time home together that always stood out to me, “Let It Be.” I would beg my mother to play it over and over again. And she always obliged. Sometimes we listened to the Beatles sing it. Other times she played a treasury of gospel music with a choir singing the song. I was always frustrated by the treasury set with its 34 records all grouped together in a box. I would search and search for the one song I wanted to hear but each record looked identical to the next. I sat in wonder as my mother always selected the one with the song we wanted to hear. It was like a code only she understood. As the record hissed and popped on the player, I would sit in silence waiting for the music. I quietly listened to the melody and the words over and over. Something about this song seemed so sacred. All my young life I had listened to music, on Sesame Street and during long car rides. I would sing along with the silly songs about numbers, letters, and colors, but somehow this song was different. It was like the music spoke directly to me. And it was beautiful.
As I got older, I moved on to other music. When I began buying albums, I never bought a Beatles album. To this day I don’t own one. I never saw the need to. They were always with me, in my memories of childhood. I chose other bands to fall in love with. I ate through albums, quickly devouring the Doors, the Cure, Cinderella, Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins, Blink 182, Bright Eyes, and more. I studied the music, learning where the bands were from, what the songs meant, and what the musicians stood for. But nostalgic, I would still seek out a Beatles song from time to time.
While I enjoyed Paul McCartney’s voice and songwriting, I always had a fondness for John. He was an icon of peace and strength. I admired him for his views and his daringness to express them. I also fell in love with the story of Yoko Ono and John Lennon. I often referred to this as the greatest love story ever. I didn’t busy myself with stories about her interference with the band or the odd things they did together. I focused on other stories, stories about their dedication to one another and what they believed in. I recall hearing that after John had died, Yoko had left his closet exactly as it had been the day of his death. Twenty years later it was still unchanged. She never discarded a single item. I was in awe of how strong her love had been for this man. And how heartbroken she must have been when he was taken from her. And how I remembered that day.
On a trip to New York City in May of 2008, I decided to visit Strawberry Fields on a whim. Dedicated on October 9, 1985, on what would have been John’s 45th birthday, Yoko funded this Central Park memorial for John. I dragged my travel companion, Robin, along with me. She knew little of the Beatles but agreed to make this stop on our tour of the park. Entering Central Park across from the Dakota, we moved down the passageway to find a sign indicating we were entering Strawberry Fields. Bright and brilliant flowers decorated the perimeter of the path. As we continued forward, the trail suddenly opened to a clearing where a large inlay of gray mosaic spelled out the word “Imagine”. It was simple and breathtaking. I paused here, taking in the entire view, the contrast of colorful flowers and the stoic slate of the grey stones. I breathed in deeply, allowing my thought to wander. There were tourists from all over the word paying their respects. I thought of the millions of fans who cried the night John died. I thought of Yoko and her heartbreak. And I thought of my mother and that sad day when my father came home from work to show my mother the news.
I watched the other tourists, representing a variety of ages. Some sat quietly paying their respects. Others laid on the mosaic, posing in front of the word boldly tiled in the center. I was sad hearing them laugh and giggle, snapping shot after shot. Robin, not understanding the wash of emotions I felt being in this place, asked me if I wanted my photo taken in the mosaic. I quietly declined and joined the other silent mourners on a nearby bench.
A seemingly homeless man, dressed in dirty pants, a tattered shirt, and an elastic headband, worked silently putting flowers around an imaginary peace sign at the heart of the mosaic. A large black dog tied to a park bench with a piece of dirty rope appeared to be waiting for him, panting in the spring heat next to the wilting bouquets. Three men walked by practicing fighting moves. They carried dirty white boxing pads. Each time one of the men would punch the other, the dog would get riled up and bark at them. I waited for the man to stop his work but he continued with his flowers. The men moved away from the dog but she continued to bark and lunge at them, upset with their disruption. They finally conceded, calling the dog by name and then moved down the path, out of view. The homeless man, muttering to the smiling tourists about their disrespect, shooed them away as he persisted to place his drooping pink and yellow roses around the tribute. I wondered who this man was. He obviously had little money and yet somehow he had all these flowers that he so meticulously placed across the small stones. Had he spent his last few dollars to pay this tribute? Was this something he did every day? Were the flowers day old discards from a nearby market? Did he know John? What compelled him to complete this task?
Overwhelmed by this scene, I could feel the tears welling up. Robin sat next to me unaffected. She shrugged her shoulders at me and said something about not really knowing anything about the Beatles, they were before her time. Her words angered me. I was too young as well, but the Beatles seemed so timeless. You didn’t need to grow up in the 1960s to understand what they meant to the world of music. I didn’t want her to see me cry, so I bit the inside of my lip. I swallowed hard, trying to retain control of my emotions. I thought of all the things this place meant to me. Of all the things the Beatles meant to me. And how much they were a part of time spent with my mother. After a few minutes, I stood up, looked at Robin, and we silently resumed our travels through Central Park.
Time dulls all wounds. It moves forward and buries events with new tragedies and joys. On the seventh anniversary of John Lennon’s death, my mother gave birth to her youngest child and only son. I was twelve. It took me over 20 years before I realized the connection of my brother’s birth and that early memory of my childhood. Did she ever think with sadness of John Lennon’s death while we watched Ted blow out candles, open gifts, and flail around blindly trying to pin the tail on a paper donkey? If she did, I never knew it. This day was all about Ted.
My mother, now in her 50s, still plays her Beatles albums. They are no longer black grooved records that I can fit my hand though but are now on shiny metallic discs. These compact discs are tucked in a desktop in my parent’s home office, so far from the living room which once held the record player and all the vinyl that was underneath it. When I am her age, I hope that I too will listen to my old albums, in whatever format they will be in, and still find a connection to the lyrics and melodies that shaped and impacted me.
I have a more recent memory that involves the Beatles, and I like to think this one is less disputed than my memories from my childhood. But again it involves tragedy. I was working at a library in Green Bay Wisconsin, when on a cold day in November 2001 I heard the news of George Harrison’s passing. Taking a break from the front desk, I was surfing the Internet when I came across a headline on Yahoo.com that Harrison had died of cancer. I instantly thought of my mother. Her favorite Beatles’ song was written by George, it was one she played often during those mornings we spent together before I started school. I sped through my day, anxious to call my mother and make sure she was okay. I felt silly, like a small child, asking if she heard the news. We spoke only briefly of George’s passing and moved on to other topics. While she talked about what my father was doing and all the things taking place in that small town I grew up in, I thought how this would not be the last call I would make. There were still two more Beatles left. Her words began to blur as she continued on with her stories. I wondered if she was sad. But before I hung up, I remember her thanking me for calling.
