A retired doctor moved into Drake Terrace yesterday. He is fairly independent, walks with a cane, has hearing problems, but manages all his care. He is already walking through the community as if he's lived there for several months.
He's 99.
He and his daughter moved him out of his home in San Francisco and into communal living for the first time in his life. She's an active land surveyor in Israel, working well into her 70s. A sketch she did of 3000 year old beehives she helped unearth was made into a postage stamp by the Israeli government.
Her father reads three newspapers a day, loves to socialize, and fondly recalls his days as a general practitioner. He may not remember he has already met some of the staff, but at 99 he is one of the few mostly independent residents we have at that age.
Ten people have moved into Drake Terrace in the past month, creating a whirlwind in our 135-person community. One man routinely out-biked men and women fifty years younger up until he was 80. Another woman, now 90, hiked across England from west to east fifteen years ago. Another woman raised a family of swimmers, including an Olympic medalist. One woman roller bladed to work in the business department at Queens College, and later in life played tennis and biked every morning.
All of the new people (and the regulars) form a rich tapestry of people who constantly inspire and intrigue and fascinate (and frustrate) me. I am blessed to be surrounded by them.
Tonight a woman from Oklahoma who spent most of her life in Texas shared how she and her late husband owned two banks. They expected their son to follow in his parents' footsteps, but he ended up starting his own very successful olive oil company.
I often say to new residents and their families how sorry I am I never got to know their mother or father in their younger, heyday years. By the time many people move into Drake Terrace they have physical or emotional needs that require added care, are suffering from cognitive decline (or worse), or want (or need) to be closer to family.
Long gone are the people who danced on weekends, took all-day car rides, traveled across the world, built businesses and raised families. But the people who adapt most easily to senior living are the ones who remain active, who still dance on Saturdays at Happy Hour, who attend our book club, who go on outings for lunch and dinner, who play Wii bowling, who play Bingo or go to church, or who play an instrument or go on long walks.
An 88-year old woman recently told me after an exercise session, "I'm a 30-year old trapped in old person's body." But her aches and pain haven't stopped her from living.
Thursday, October 8, 2015
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
Not Just A Shirt
Tucked at the bottom of my shirts and shorts in the middle-side drawer of our chest bed is a white short sleeve cut-off sweatshirt that once belonged to my father. I am not sure how I acquired it. I doubt my father, who is 84 and lives in Florida with my stepmother, remembers either. I somehow took possession of it at least 40 years ago.
I do remember my father used to wear it, I think, when he went running early in the morning. He was 6'2'' back then and weighed 240 lbs. He went on a diet and ate fish for dinner, and iceberg lettuce salads with tomatoes and homemade thousand island dressing (ketchup and mayonnaise), and beet soup (borscht) with cucumbers floating on top like lily pads on the surface of a pond.
My father started jogging, even when he was working 60-80 hour weeks, before the running boom swept the United States in the mid-1970s, wearing his sweatshirt and low-top Converse sneakers. I imagine him rubbing his hands together in the chilly New England morning air, wisps of air curling past his face, before he started his run.
I don't know how long he ran for daily or for how long he kept up his daily regimen. I do know that he shed 60 lbs, mostly through an improved diet, but spoke of running as something that gave him athletic purpose. I imagine he also dwelled on his problems, and jogging helped him clear his mind and settle on solutions.
His active life changed forever when I was 12 in 1971. I was at Hebrew school, and my parents and brother, who is four years younger than I am, drove our old car to pick up our relatively new one at the dealership in Windsor, CT, where it was being serviced for a six-month tune-up.
My dad pulled into a construction site next to the dealership because it was a short cut. The car got stuck in the mud, so as my mother and brother went get help at the dealership my dad wedged a piece of plywood under the muddy tire. Under the wood, though, was a 15-foot sewer shaft that my father fell into, shattering his kneecap and severing ligaments and tendons.
He had two surgeries, including one that fused his leg permanently straight, wore full leg casts for a total of 16 months, endured months of rehab and later back problems, and saw his life (and ours) change irrevocably as he was unable to move normally.
Several years later, he opted to reverse the fusion and had a full-knee replacement that was initially successful, but ultimately failed when his leg became seriously infected and he spent nearly a year on antibiotics.
He sued the construction company, and went to court in 1978. But he lost because the law at the time defined my father as a trespasser for being on private property. The judge said he had no recourse. His surgeon excused the nearly $30,000 that my father owed him.
My father never complained or cried (that I know of) or yelled at us or lost his temper or treated anyone differently because of his situation. He never screamed when the itching on his leg was agony and he was forced to try and scratch it with a hanger or when he stumbled or when he could no longer run or walk without pain and serious effort.
Miguel's life was altered when he was 12, too. His mother died, and one of the people he'd been closest to for all his life was ripped from him forever.
About a year so ago he asked to borrow my tie-dye shirt, the one I made on a middle school retreat when I was a teacher in the late 1990s, for some sixties day event at school. He has never given it back. I asked for it a few times before I realized he might want the shirt. Just like I've kept my father's.
When I look at the sweatshirt, which is usually after I clean out the drawer and donate old t-shirts and re-fold the ones I am keeping, I think of my father and how he persevered through his troubles and how his positive nature has remained virtually unchanged for more than 80 years. How, even though his back is bent at close to a 90-degree angle and his left leg is scarred and swollen, he became a hero in my eyes (and others) for how he dealt with and triumphed through adversity.
I hope someday, when Miguel fingers the t-shirt and remembers how I coped with Verna's death and remained committed to being the best possible parent, that he will feel the same.
I do remember my father used to wear it, I think, when he went running early in the morning. He was 6'2'' back then and weighed 240 lbs. He went on a diet and ate fish for dinner, and iceberg lettuce salads with tomatoes and homemade thousand island dressing (ketchup and mayonnaise), and beet soup (borscht) with cucumbers floating on top like lily pads on the surface of a pond.
My father started jogging, even when he was working 60-80 hour weeks, before the running boom swept the United States in the mid-1970s, wearing his sweatshirt and low-top Converse sneakers. I imagine him rubbing his hands together in the chilly New England morning air, wisps of air curling past his face, before he started his run.
I don't know how long he ran for daily or for how long he kept up his daily regimen. I do know that he shed 60 lbs, mostly through an improved diet, but spoke of running as something that gave him athletic purpose. I imagine he also dwelled on his problems, and jogging helped him clear his mind and settle on solutions.
His active life changed forever when I was 12 in 1971. I was at Hebrew school, and my parents and brother, who is four years younger than I am, drove our old car to pick up our relatively new one at the dealership in Windsor, CT, where it was being serviced for a six-month tune-up.
My dad pulled into a construction site next to the dealership because it was a short cut. The car got stuck in the mud, so as my mother and brother went get help at the dealership my dad wedged a piece of plywood under the muddy tire. Under the wood, though, was a 15-foot sewer shaft that my father fell into, shattering his kneecap and severing ligaments and tendons.
He had two surgeries, including one that fused his leg permanently straight, wore full leg casts for a total of 16 months, endured months of rehab and later back problems, and saw his life (and ours) change irrevocably as he was unable to move normally.
Several years later, he opted to reverse the fusion and had a full-knee replacement that was initially successful, but ultimately failed when his leg became seriously infected and he spent nearly a year on antibiotics.
He sued the construction company, and went to court in 1978. But he lost because the law at the time defined my father as a trespasser for being on private property. The judge said he had no recourse. His surgeon excused the nearly $30,000 that my father owed him.
My father never complained or cried (that I know of) or yelled at us or lost his temper or treated anyone differently because of his situation. He never screamed when the itching on his leg was agony and he was forced to try and scratch it with a hanger or when he stumbled or when he could no longer run or walk without pain and serious effort.
Miguel's life was altered when he was 12, too. His mother died, and one of the people he'd been closest to for all his life was ripped from him forever.
About a year so ago he asked to borrow my tie-dye shirt, the one I made on a middle school retreat when I was a teacher in the late 1990s, for some sixties day event at school. He has never given it back. I asked for it a few times before I realized he might want the shirt. Just like I've kept my father's.
When I look at the sweatshirt, which is usually after I clean out the drawer and donate old t-shirts and re-fold the ones I am keeping, I think of my father and how he persevered through his troubles and how his positive nature has remained virtually unchanged for more than 80 years. How, even though his back is bent at close to a 90-degree angle and his left leg is scarred and swollen, he became a hero in my eyes (and others) for how he dealt with and triumphed through adversity.
I hope someday, when Miguel fingers the t-shirt and remembers how I coped with Verna's death and remained committed to being the best possible parent, that he will feel the same.
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
Dance, Dance, Dance
One of Verna's best friends posted a picture of them yesterday from the late 1980s, when they were part of a Carnaval San Francisco troupe that was awarded the top honor that year. There was Verna, with a blue bustier-like bikini top, sparkly silver chains dangling, and a Carmen Miranda-like headdress atop her head, a tentative smile across her face. She never did like to be photographed or have attention upon her or be asked to speak in public. But she loved to dance, and until Elizabeth posted the photo I'd forgotten that Verna first inspired her, Elizabeth, who has been a dynamic force on the Bay area dance scene for more than 20 years.
I witnessed Verna's dance legacy again last night when Maya asked me to put on some music so she could perform for me and Miguel. OK, Miguel was busy on his computer and phone.
"Surprise me (with the music)," Maya said.
So I chose Cannonball Adderley's uptempo version of "Fiddler on the Roof" because that jazz cat imbued the Eastern European tinged classic with enough rhythm and beat for even Elaine on Seinfeld. Maya moved gracefully and--dare I say--naturally through the song, weaving her arms and hands in perfect syncopation to the music. I may have been imagining it, but she seemed at one with the music, her feet stepping in time to the beat. just as I'd seen Verna do so many times before. It was as if Maya had unknowingly grabbed the torch as she glided across the living room carpet and taken on Verna's dancing abilities with ease.
Elizabeth's photograph made me sad, because it reminded me again of the vital force of a person we all lost just over five years ago, and how our kids are deprived of their mother as they grow up. But seeing Maya bop to the Adderley tune and then spend another 20 minutes playing dance class made me realize that Verna's legacy is quite strong.
Bryan Adams sang: "She's only happy when she's dancin'/There ain't no place she'd rather be/When she's dancin'/Just her heart and her soul and her fantasies," and I think that when Verna danced she lost herself in the music and the movement, and broke free from her insecurities and shyness and became the self she wanted to be. I saw the same spirit overtake Maya last night, and at a time when I missed Verna terribly it also made me very happy.
I witnessed Verna's dance legacy again last night when Maya asked me to put on some music so she could perform for me and Miguel. OK, Miguel was busy on his computer and phone.
"Surprise me (with the music)," Maya said.
So I chose Cannonball Adderley's uptempo version of "Fiddler on the Roof" because that jazz cat imbued the Eastern European tinged classic with enough rhythm and beat for even Elaine on Seinfeld. Maya moved gracefully and--dare I say--naturally through the song, weaving her arms and hands in perfect syncopation to the music. I may have been imagining it, but she seemed at one with the music, her feet stepping in time to the beat. just as I'd seen Verna do so many times before. It was as if Maya had unknowingly grabbed the torch as she glided across the living room carpet and taken on Verna's dancing abilities with ease.
Elizabeth's photograph made me sad, because it reminded me again of the vital force of a person we all lost just over five years ago, and how our kids are deprived of their mother as they grow up. But seeing Maya bop to the Adderley tune and then spend another 20 minutes playing dance class made me realize that Verna's legacy is quite strong.
Bryan Adams sang: "She's only happy when she's dancin'/There ain't no place she'd rather be/When she's dancin'/Just her heart and her soul and her fantasies," and I think that when Verna danced she lost herself in the music and the movement, and broke free from her insecurities and shyness and became the self she wanted to be. I saw the same spirit overtake Maya last night, and at a time when I missed Verna terribly it also made me very happy.
Monday, October 5, 2015
Think Before You Pink
Today would have been Verna’s
51st birthday and she died from breast cancer, so allow me to rant
about October being Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I hate breast cancer
awareness. Who isn’t aware of breast
cancer and how it has affected our mothers, daughters, sisters, wives, friends,
and children?
We don’t need more
awareness; we need more money for research especially into metastatic breast
cancer, the rates of which have basically not changed over the years.
Instead of blanketing
everything pink—from football goalposts to baseball bats to ribbons and
balloons everywhere—why not look at the ways in which we can reduce the
incidences of cancer that are often attributable to products from companies who
tout their high level of awareness?
For example, the Personal
Care Products Council in concert with the American Cancer Society hold free
workshops and donate free beauty care products for women with cancer. However,
many of these products have either been linked to cancer or have been shown to
thwart breast cancer treatments, according to Breast Cancer Action.
Methylparaben, for example, has been found to interfere with the cancer drug
Tamoxifen.
The organization that
raises my ire the most is Komen, probably one of the most well-known cancer “awareness”
organizations on the planet. But less than 20% of the money they raise for
their host of well-known activities goes to breast cancer research. They
promote pink drill bits for an oil company. As the Washington Post reported, “More than 700 chemicals are used in the process of drilling and fracking for oil and gas. In a study of
about 350 of those chemicals,
researchers found that up to half can cause health problems, including nervous,
immune and cardiovascular symptoms. More than one-third can disrupt the
hormone system. And a quarter of the chemicals, such as benzene and formaldehyde, increase the
risk of cancer.”
Another example, noted Amy McCarthy in Bustle,
is Campbell Soup, “In 2012, Campbell’s Soup became the target of significant
criticism after it turned many of its famous soup cans pink to support
breastcancer.org. These pink soup cans, most
contaminated with bisphenol-A (BPA), a suspected carcinogen with scientific
links to breast cancer, helped generate over $800,000 in donations
to breastcancer.org in 2006. At the same time, Campbell’s was
selling millions of cans of soup, generating over $755 million in
revenue across all the
company’s brands. In 2012, Campbell’s made a big
announcement that they would be removing BPA from cans. In
what many health bloggers called a great victory, Campbell’s managed to punt
the issue until at least 2015, likely because they still don’t
know how to produce close to 95% of their canned goods line without using BPA.”
So spare me, please, all these efforts to pinkify the universe
with often well-intended concern for breast cancer awareness. My wife died five
years ago, five weeks shy of her 46th birthday, and breast cancer
continues to be pervasive in part because corporations and companies make cancer-causing
products. And not enough money is being allocated to find a cure. How many more
wives and mothers and daughters and sisters and friends have to die before we
think before we pink and start doing the right things?
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Let the Sun In
There Miguel and I sat, just to the right of home plate, in the View Reserved section of AT&T Park on a glorious Indian summer day, watching the Giants' tribute to the retiring Jeremy Affeldt on the final day of the 2015 regular season. Affeldt spoke last, after tributes from the president of the Giants, and the manager, and one of Affeldt's best friends on the team, pitcher Matt Cain, and Affeldt said, "Parents, make sure to let your children know you are proud of them."
Then he shared the story of how when he was 12 years old and sitting with his father in Oakland Coliseum, where the A's and Raiders play, he turned to him and said, "Dad, some day I'm going to pitch in this stadium."
And his father said, "Son, go for it."
Tears were welling in my eyes at this point.
Affeldt continued. Ten years later he was walking through the centerfield gates onto the field and he called his father. "Dad," he said, "remember when we sat at Oakland Coliseum and I told you I was going to play here someday and you said that I should go for it? Well, I'm here dad."
The phone suddenly disconnected. Affeldt dialed back and his mother answered. "What happened to dad?" She said, "He dropped the phone because he was crying."
I reached over as Affeldt finished his story and rub-patted Miguel on the back. "I am proud of you, Miguel." I am hard on him at times as he has begun the process of applying to colleges, but I like the young man he has become.
I felt exactly how Affeldt was feeling as the tributes washed over him in view of his wife, their three sons, his parents, sister, and in-laws: blessed.
Later in the day, Maya and I went to clean up Verna and her mother's gravesite in honor of Verna's birthday tomorrow. As we pulled into the parking lot, Maya said, "It's really sad when someone young dies, like Alex," she nodded in the direction of the grave bearing his name in huge letters stuck into the ground.
"How did he die?" she asked.
I hesitated because I knew the answer and wasn't sure I should share it. "He killed himself," I said softly.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"I'd never do that," she said. "There are so many places I haven't seen yet."
At that moment I felt blessed again, by Miguel and Maya, the people they are and will become, and by the love that Verna and I shared to create them.
Maya and I then ambled to the grave marker and cleared away the dirt and strands of grass, poured out the water from the plastic flower holders, replaced the worn flowers with two plastic bouquets of roses, straightened up the remaining talismans, and, following Jewish tradition, I then found two stones and placed them on the edge of the grave, to show I was there.
We said happy birthday to Verna and I said, "It's still sad Mommy is not with us."
Maya didn't say anything. I was also thinking how fortunate I am to have Miguel and Maya and how proud Verna would be. Her blessings are my blessings.
Then he shared the story of how when he was 12 years old and sitting with his father in Oakland Coliseum, where the A's and Raiders play, he turned to him and said, "Dad, some day I'm going to pitch in this stadium."
And his father said, "Son, go for it."
Tears were welling in my eyes at this point.
Affeldt continued. Ten years later he was walking through the centerfield gates onto the field and he called his father. "Dad," he said, "remember when we sat at Oakland Coliseum and I told you I was going to play here someday and you said that I should go for it? Well, I'm here dad."
The phone suddenly disconnected. Affeldt dialed back and his mother answered. "What happened to dad?" She said, "He dropped the phone because he was crying."
I reached over as Affeldt finished his story and rub-patted Miguel on the back. "I am proud of you, Miguel." I am hard on him at times as he has begun the process of applying to colleges, but I like the young man he has become.
I felt exactly how Affeldt was feeling as the tributes washed over him in view of his wife, their three sons, his parents, sister, and in-laws: blessed.
Later in the day, Maya and I went to clean up Verna and her mother's gravesite in honor of Verna's birthday tomorrow. As we pulled into the parking lot, Maya said, "It's really sad when someone young dies, like Alex," she nodded in the direction of the grave bearing his name in huge letters stuck into the ground.
"How did he die?" she asked.
I hesitated because I knew the answer and wasn't sure I should share it. "He killed himself," I said softly.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"I'd never do that," she said. "There are so many places I haven't seen yet."
At that moment I felt blessed again, by Miguel and Maya, the people they are and will become, and by the love that Verna and I shared to create them.
Maya and I then ambled to the grave marker and cleared away the dirt and strands of grass, poured out the water from the plastic flower holders, replaced the worn flowers with two plastic bouquets of roses, straightened up the remaining talismans, and, following Jewish tradition, I then found two stones and placed them on the edge of the grave, to show I was there.
We said happy birthday to Verna and I said, "It's still sad Mommy is not with us."
Maya didn't say anything. I was also thinking how fortunate I am to have Miguel and Maya and how proud Verna would be. Her blessings are my blessings.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
Pump Us Up!
My brother and I were talking yesterday about our kids, and how his three boys are sports mad even though he never played sports as a kid. His eldest, who is 12 1/2, has already shown amazing progress as a distance runner in races with kids and adults; his middle son is particularly adept at baseball, soccer, and basketball; and his youngest, only five, throws a baseball with enough acumen to land him in some major league bullpens.
I have always loved sports, still root for the Red Sox and the Giants and was overjoyed when the Warriors won the NBA title, and I cycle every day and have even completed four marathons (in a galaxy long, long ago), but my talent in any athletic area has been fairly south of mediocre.
Miguel can easily out-drive me off the tee in golf. I may have a slight edge in putting, but he looks like a golfer, I, like a hacker. He surpassed me on the basketball court a couple of years ago, stuffing my shots and out-gunning me to the hoop. He is faster and almost as savvy.
Just the other day, in view of a horrified Maya, Miguel and I wrestled in her bedroom, and he pinned me down on the bed and I could not break free. The torch had been passed.
So my brother and I were ruminating on where the athletic skills come from, because we know the genes were not passed on from us. Unless, we said, there is something hidden in our family's DNA code of which we are unaware. The passion for sports I understand as it applies to Miguel. I can be a rabid sports fan, my dad is an uber sports fanatic, and I still love cycling in Marin County and hiking in California.
But we are gobsmacked to explain why Miguel is the incoming captain of his high school golf squad or Scott's son nearly won a 3-mile race last year where he was one of the younger entrants. Athletic ability may be genetic to a degree, but it clearly was harvested on the mothers' sides when it comes to my brother's and my kids.
Now it turns out Maya wants to strengthen her upper body for gymnastics. Her instructor suggested I help her do pull-ups on the bar across the door frame in Miguel's closet. I told Maya we could do pull-ups together. I could always use some (more) muscles and definition in my arms and chest. And, who knows, maybe Miguel will let me have a wrestling rematch.
I have always loved sports, still root for the Red Sox and the Giants and was overjoyed when the Warriors won the NBA title, and I cycle every day and have even completed four marathons (in a galaxy long, long ago), but my talent in any athletic area has been fairly south of mediocre.
Miguel can easily out-drive me off the tee in golf. I may have a slight edge in putting, but he looks like a golfer, I, like a hacker. He surpassed me on the basketball court a couple of years ago, stuffing my shots and out-gunning me to the hoop. He is faster and almost as savvy.
Just the other day, in view of a horrified Maya, Miguel and I wrestled in her bedroom, and he pinned me down on the bed and I could not break free. The torch had been passed.
So my brother and I were ruminating on where the athletic skills come from, because we know the genes were not passed on from us. Unless, we said, there is something hidden in our family's DNA code of which we are unaware. The passion for sports I understand as it applies to Miguel. I can be a rabid sports fan, my dad is an uber sports fanatic, and I still love cycling in Marin County and hiking in California.
But we are gobsmacked to explain why Miguel is the incoming captain of his high school golf squad or Scott's son nearly won a 3-mile race last year where he was one of the younger entrants. Athletic ability may be genetic to a degree, but it clearly was harvested on the mothers' sides when it comes to my brother's and my kids.
Now it turns out Maya wants to strengthen her upper body for gymnastics. Her instructor suggested I help her do pull-ups on the bar across the door frame in Miguel's closet. I told Maya we could do pull-ups together. I could always use some (more) muscles and definition in my arms and chest. And, who knows, maybe Miguel will let me have a wrestling rematch.
Friday, October 2, 2015
31 Days
I haven't posted anything here for more than a year. I'd love to blame writer's block or working a full-time job or having to make wholesome lunches and dinners or being in love for the past seven months or my twice weekly calls with my father or having to take out the garbage every Thursday night or grocery shopping or...
I might just be a little lazy and very afraid. Afraid to fail, afraid my writing just isn't good enough, afraid, afraid, afraid.
So I committed to write for all 31 days in October and--boom--I missed yesterday.
While there are plenty of hot-button topics to choose from (Trump, Hillary, the Pope, guns), I decided to play it safe and go with memories.
I saw Ringo Starr and his all-star last night at the Masonic Auditorium in San Francisco. At one point, I was standing, swaying slightly to the music, as Ringo sang, with the entire audience, Yellow Submarine. I felt myself smiling. I was transported back to 1964 when I was five, at the height of Beatlemania as the four lads from Liverpool swept through the United States. I remember singing She Loves You on the phone to my grandmother, who was proud of me even if she probably knew little if anything about rock and roll.
There was the Beatles cartoon show on Saturday mornings and the red plastic Beatles guitar, with the faces of John, Paul, George, and Ringo etched in black on the maestro instrument. There were endless hours listening to the Beatles' albums and cassettes, and then delving into the mysteries of their music. There was even the hoax surrounding Paul's death.
I lived in New York City, as a college student at Columbia University, in 1980 when John Lennon was shot and murdered outside his apartment building, a building I used to run near when I did my daily jaunt in Riverside Park on the Upper West Side.
The Beatles, who I consider to be hands down the greatest rock and roll band of all time, have always been part of my life, even if John and George are gone. And Ringo may be 75 (though he looks as if he's 50 and could run a marathon) and sounding musically rough around the edges and in between, but he is still Ringo Friggin' Starr, one-fourth of the the most amazing rock and roll quartet I have ever experienced.
So work is stressful and Miguel is applying to colleges and Maya is a girl scout and wants to play the violin and loves gymnastics and my life is busy, busy, busy, but for one night I just listened to the music of my youth and I felt very, very good. And maybe it won't inspire me to write more, but it did get me going.
I might just be a little lazy and very afraid. Afraid to fail, afraid my writing just isn't good enough, afraid, afraid, afraid.
So I committed to write for all 31 days in October and--boom--I missed yesterday.
While there are plenty of hot-button topics to choose from (Trump, Hillary, the Pope, guns), I decided to play it safe and go with memories.
I saw Ringo Starr and his all-star last night at the Masonic Auditorium in San Francisco. At one point, I was standing, swaying slightly to the music, as Ringo sang, with the entire audience, Yellow Submarine. I felt myself smiling. I was transported back to 1964 when I was five, at the height of Beatlemania as the four lads from Liverpool swept through the United States. I remember singing She Loves You on the phone to my grandmother, who was proud of me even if she probably knew little if anything about rock and roll.
There was the Beatles cartoon show on Saturday mornings and the red plastic Beatles guitar, with the faces of John, Paul, George, and Ringo etched in black on the maestro instrument. There were endless hours listening to the Beatles' albums and cassettes, and then delving into the mysteries of their music. There was even the hoax surrounding Paul's death.
I lived in New York City, as a college student at Columbia University, in 1980 when John Lennon was shot and murdered outside his apartment building, a building I used to run near when I did my daily jaunt in Riverside Park on the Upper West Side.
The Beatles, who I consider to be hands down the greatest rock and roll band of all time, have always been part of my life, even if John and George are gone. And Ringo may be 75 (though he looks as if he's 50 and could run a marathon) and sounding musically rough around the edges and in between, but he is still Ringo Friggin' Starr, one-fourth of the the most amazing rock and roll quartet I have ever experienced.
So work is stressful and Miguel is applying to colleges and Maya is a girl scout and wants to play the violin and loves gymnastics and my life is busy, busy, busy, but for one night I just listened to the music of my youth and I felt very, very good. And maybe it won't inspire me to write more, but it did get me going.
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