Peace Love and White Lipstick

Story ID:	2025
Written by:	Betty (BJ) Roan
Story type:	Family History
Writers Conference:	$500 2007 Family Memories Writing Project
Location:	Dallas TX USA
Year:	2000
Person:	Paul McCartney

Friday’s lunch menu always included fish. It was usually served with overcooked macaroni and cheese, canned green beans, and although I’m not sure, probably applesauce. Yummy school food, remember? I was in the process of gagging down the soggy macaroni when my friend Roseann came back to the table after disposing of her lunch tray.

“Are you going to watch Ed Sullivan this week?” She asked eagerly.

Unaware of any particular reason why I should, I nodded unenthusiastically. Ed Sullivan was one of the few television shows my dad allowed us to watch. Since she seemed so excited about the prospect I asked, “Why?”

“Why?” She asked, amazed by my indifference. “The Beatles are going to be on!”

“Who are The Beatles?” I asked innocently.

Aghast, she practically screamed, “You don’t know about The Beatles?”

The year was 1964. On February 9th, a thirteen year old girl from middle of nowhere America sat cross-legged on the floor in front of a black and white television set. A screaming audience practically drowned out Mr. Sullivan’s introduction, as I waited impatiently to see what my friend had been so excited about, and boy did I ever find out. I knew I would never get to see The Beatles in person, but oh how I wanted to. It became a dream that I would fantasize about for years to come.

That seemingly trivial event was a major turning point for me, sort of a ‘coming out’ if you will. That was the year jax lost their appeal and my hula hoop was abandoned to a nail on the garage wall. After all, a girl couldn’t be in love with Paul McCartney and play silly kid games.

I no longer folded gum wrappers into chains, instead I started keeping a diary, listening to the Beatles on my transistor radio, and asking the magic 8 ball for love advice. Fizzies made way for cherry cokes while hanging out at the local Soda Fountain. Flip flops were exchanged for pointed toed tennis shoes, kept white by layer after layer of shoe polish.

When I was old enough to get my driver’s license, I could be seen driving around town in a red Volkswagon Bug while flashing the peace sign instead of waving to my friends. I would turn the volume up on the radio while listening to; you guessed it, The Beatles.

My closet was filled with bell-bottom pants, tie-died shirts, minis skirts, the required go-go boots, empire dresses, and platform shoes. Getting ready for a date meant applying blue eye shadow, Cleopatra style eyeliner, and the final requirement…white lipstick. I wore my hair long and straight, sometimes tucking a flower in one side. If only Paul could see me now.

I watched the Monkeys and Petticoat Junction on that same old television set with poor reception. I talked to my friends on a princess phone, while listening to a variety of rock groups who became part of the British invasion. I learned to dance the jerk, the pony, the mashed potato, the swim, and failed miserably with the limbo.

Conversations were filled with such words as groovy, far out man, outa sight, dig it, right on, let it all hang out, and my personal favorite…tootles. Flower Power was everywhere, Vietnam gave us the phrase, make love not war. After all, it was the decade of love.

And then I reached the ultimate goal of every girl, my boyfriend asked me to go steady. I would spend hours wrapping pastel strings of angora around his too large class ring, brushing it until it looked more like a troll doll than a ring. I might have been going steady, but don’t think I had forgotten my one true love, Paul.

The 60’s were over, the 70’s brought marriage and responsibilities, the 80’s were spent trying to control teenagers, and the 90’s brought an empty nest. I was loyal to my new favorite musical group, Paul McCartney and Wings.

The year 2000 had arrived. My birthday was fast approaching. Fifty sounded so old. I tried not to be depressed, but I was. It was after dinner a few nights before that monumental day when my daughter asked, “So Mom, what do you want for your birthday?”

“I don’t know, anything is fine,” I said indifferently.

“What about tickets for a play or movie gift certificates?”

“Really, anything is fine. You choose,” I said.

Grinning mischievously, she asked, “If there was anyone, anyone in the entire world you could see in concert, who would it be?”

Unenthusiastically, I gave my usual answer, “Paul McCartney.”

She reached into her back pocket, pulled out a Ticketmaster envelope and held it toward me, “Have fun.”

I opened the flap and pulled out two tickets to see Paul McCartney at Reunion Arena. I nearly fainted, and then whooped for joy, dancing around the room reenacting the jerk, the pony, the mashed potato, and the swim. I didn’t bother with the limbo…I would have broken something. I was acting like an idiot and my daughter and son-in-law have never let me forget it.

I called up one of my girlfriends and made her day. We were going to see Sir Paul.

The lights dimmed, characters dressed in strange costumes walked down the aisles of the arena, the music swelled and then...there he was. I sat quietly in my seat, unable to breath, my heart beating louder than the drums. I was no longer a fifty year old woman with graying hair; I was that thirteen year old girl sitting cross-legged in front of a black & white television, watching the Ed Sullivan show.