Bright Are The Stars That Shine

Dear Mom,

I'd give anything to see your reaction to my crazy tale, fifty-eight years in the making. Instead, it's just me, this keyboard, and the never-ending search for a worthy turn of phrase. I'd rather be holding your hand.

I thought long and hard about whether to write this. I wanted to be sure it was something that would've earned your stamp of approval. Given your fondness for the business of show, I believe there's nothing you'd get a kick out of more than featuring in my most exciting experience. This one's for you!

All my loving,

Cathy

In 1964, I was twelve years old and living with my family in coastal Massachusetts. Looking back, it was a period of great innocence. We respected our elders, did our homework, and obeyed our parents to the letter.

A devout Catholic who felt guilty for so much as stealing meatballs on Fridays, I was by no means a rebel. I studied hard, completed my chores, and boogied to records in my spare time. Music and dance were the highlights of my youth.

When my mother drove me to Winky's house—a nickname that warrants its own essay—in her powder blue Volkswagen, I swear it was on honest terms. I didn't know what was to come.

Winky—real name Joyce—had grandparents who resided on the isle of Manhattan. They'd invited the two of us, along with our friend Linda, to stay in New York for a few days over vacation. We had plans to see the sights, and there was even some buzz about theatre tickets. Enamored with travel in general and the Great White Way in particular, I was eager to accept.

Bonnie, my mother, was far more hesitant, and my dad echoed her sentiments. Now a grown woman with three children, I can appreciate why. Sending your youngest into the unknown under the care of a stranger? A scary proposition for any parent, let alone those who have already lost a child, as they had. I wouldn't wish their pain on anybody.

Regrettably, this connection did not occur to me until later. My narrow focus was on the go, go, go of it all.

We quibbled a bit, to whatever degree my goody-two-shoes self was capable. We cold-shouldered, barely more than a pass the lasagna spoken at dinner. Nonetheless, after a week's worth of debate and angst, my parents gave me the stellar news: I was free to hit the Big Apple with my best buddies!

That was how, on a chilly, fateful day in February, I found myself climbing out of Mom's Bug and into Mr. Stoddard's Plymouth, the car in which we'd take that lucky drive across state—and historical—lines.

After promising to be careful, my memory skips ahead to arriving at the lovely apartment. Winky's grandmother, who insisted we address her as Edna, was warm and funny. I would go on to visit her several times throughout the years.

She introduced us to her son, Winky's uncle, a producer at a nearby studio. I wondered if he sold produce like my relatives in Boston's North End, but as it turns out, he wasn't in the fruit biz. He worked in television and offered, spur of the moment, to let us watch a broadcast.

This is where it gets juicy.

I can pinpoint the exact second our trio went from mildly interested/hardly paying attention to surfing cloud nine in a sky made of confetti.

He mentioned that the musical guests were none other than THE BEATLES.

Yes, I said THE BEATLES.

You may have heard of them. Or this guy.

The Beatles were a somewhat recent addition to U.S. airwaves, but how long does it take to fall for perfection? We three were already smitten! Gram Edna's ears must've bled from our collective screams, a mere taste of the noise to come.

She instructed me and Linda to ring home and get permission. I was terrified, right down to my Mary Jane loafers, that she'd want to speak with my parents directly. Ever the gracious hostess, she made no such demand. In fact, she told me I could use the phone in her bedroom for privacy. (Nobody back then had two phones, so this made an impression.)

Given how difficult it had been to persuade them about the trip, I couldn't conceive of my parents agreeing to Ed Sullivan and a gaggle of dreamy lads.

Thus began my membership in the secret-keepers club. Seated on a paisley bedspread, I took the receiver off the hook and pretended to do as told, babbling at muffled intervals in case someone was snooping outside the door.

When THE BEATLES are involved, one becomes crafty quite quickly.

Then I went downstairs, any shame overwritten by sheer enthusiasm. We didn't refer to it as Beatlemania for nothin'.

"All set! My mother said yes!"

Fortunately, I'd packed some sartorial gems for my grand debut in the city. I can still picture (and feel!) my outfit as if it were yesterday. I wore a plaid jumper—green & navy—and a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. My shoes were black, shiny, and adorned with dainty gold chains that matched the detailing on my pocketbook. My coat? Teal wool.

Before leaving, the three of us dabbed on the same Maybelline lipstick—the joys of a pre-COVID existence—and drenched ourselves, with her a-okay, in Edna's Chanel perfume. Oh là là! We may have only been twelve, but we felt like sophisticated ladies of at least fourteen.

As for the main act? It's tied with the birth of my kids for the title of Life's Best Moment. (Sorry, hubby.) To keep it authentic, the Beatles have an advantage. There are few experiences like bringing a tiny, precious person into the world, and I cherish them dearly, but watching The Fab Four didn't require a Pitocin drip.

I will never be able to capture the significance of this event in two-dimensional prose. I'm not going to try.

What I can tell you that they sounded far better in person, based on what I could hear over the pandemonium, my screeching included. (When I got back to the Cape, Mom thought I had a cold due to my scratchy voice. Remember that, Ma?)

That shy-seeming George did have, as we were told during the break, the sniffles that evening. (I, in a gesture of selflessness, would've volunteered to hug the germs away.)

That I was close enough to see Paul's adorable eyes under those brutal spotlights, and that they were even more puppy doggish and enchanting in the flesh. (Ah, hormones.)

That I actually convinced myself John looked at me—only me—in the middle of She Loves You, as if performing a serenade.

I'm sure every guy and gal in the room thought the exact same thing was happening. To them. He was probably aiming for the camera, or blinking, but really, who cares?

I was breathing the same oxygen as THE John Lennon! And Paul! And George! And Ringo! (Who, traditionally listed last, is never least in my book. Have you seen the spry Mr. Starr lately? Still a catch!)

Did I know then that I was standing on the precipice of a cultural revolution, one that would shape my adolescence and warrant fanfare almost sixty years later?

That this performance would be featured in the Smithsonian and discussed in various forms of media, a watershed moment for millions?

Of course not. That's the beauty of it. Knowing would've taken me outside of the magic. I got to let it swirl around me, organic as the tides carving patterns into the shore.

Our generation was without a certain brand of self-awareness that has taken hold of many today, kids especially. We didn't record everything for posterity (though part of me wishes...) or analyze how it would affect our engagement on Instagram. We never considered the potential to go viral or earn a like.

We simply lived it, in all of its amazing, goofy, flying-by-the-seat-of-one's-pants glory. I wouldn't trade that purity for a thing.

And yet, perhaps conversely, that doesn't paint the entire portrait. There was a kinetic energy flowing through that building, however nebulous, and it was reciprocal, a mutual exchange between audience and artist. No, I couldn't predict the future, but something told me—told the whole of awestruck America—that this event was special.

That these guys were going places.

The biggest understatement of our time? You bet.

The nation experienced this miracle in black & white, on small screens to boot. I got to absorb it in Technicolor, its panoramic splendor intact. There were 700 seats and 50,000 requests to fill them. Why me?

It still feels surreal, knowing the opportunity only presented itself by chance. I am forever grateful to have been in the right place at the right hour, as are my cohorts. Winky, Linda, and I remain close and can't make it through a conversation without a giddy rehash!

Once the internet became popular, I started googling pictures and videos, trying to catch a glimpse of my former self. I think that might be my hair! has been muttered a time or two. Trouble is, we '60s chicks often had the same hair, making my job tough.

I even got my family in on the gig. My kids tease me about being the female Forrest Gump. Or, as my grandson likes to describe it, we're Where's Waldo?-ing for Grammy Cathy.

I'd like to explain why I adored this quartet of melodious moptops. First, the serious side of the coin. It's no myth that a pall fell over the country after President Kennedy's assassination on November 22nd, 1963. Some of that previously mentioned innocence died alongside him. As a child, it was difficult to grasp which behaviors were appropriate when the adults around me seemed somber and worried.

Hearing the Beatles was like being granted permission to be happy again, to groove and hum and belong to something uplifting, something unifying.

Beatles fans supported one another like nobody else—we got it. You didn't have to explain yourself or feel silly in our presence. No one was excluded. To this day, I receive nothing but friendly feedback when I pull out my Beatles-themed wallet!

And, for a couple of blissful minutes per tune, I didn't have to think about anything bad. The mental health benefits alone made these records worth their weight in gold. Or platinum.

On the shallow end of the spectrum, they were SOOO CUTE! I adored their sound, their accents, the cut of their suits, and yes, the famous floppy hair. Their attire may have said proper gents, but you could tell with every grin, head bob, and instrumental flourish that they personified fun.

Plus, the music was—to get my British on—bloody brilliant.

Upon returning from my whirlwind sojourn, I did consider opening up to Mom. A Chatty Cathy since toddlerhood, it was too hard to hold it in! Those bragging rights were mine, darn it. But I kept quiet at home, fearing punishment or, worse, judgment. I didn't want my memories spoiled by claims that I was in the wrong. After all, I reasoned, no harm had come to anyone.

It helps that I went to confession regularly and unburdened myself to each of our local priests. Probably twice.

For a while, I assumed Bonnie would find out anyway. My five cousins, all girls and fellow Beatles nuts, were like sisters to me. It would've been impossible not to (twist and) shout my secret from the rooftops at our sleepovers. They were sworn to silence, of course, but Nancy was a Chatty Cathy in her own right. I never completely trusted her not to rat me out to my aunt.

If anyone was going to spill the Liverpoolian beans, it was Nanc.

Maybe I owe her an apology. If she finked, my mother didn't say as much. There were occasions when we'd hear Help! or Ticket To Ride on the radio and Mom would take a sideways peek at me, a funny look on her face. Paranoia made me question if it was a pleased-that-my-daughter's-fave-song-is-playing smile or a my-disobedient-brat-went-to-see-Ed-Sully grimace.

I never asked.

Now she's gone, and I'm sorry she took that answer with her. A lover of the dramatic, I know Bonnie must be tickled to hold the final piece of the puzzle, as she should. Moms deserve to win a few rounds for all of their sacrifices.

Mother-daughter relationships are complex. As kind as he was, I never had any desire to come clean to my father. There are some things best kept from the men in my life, and they would agree, an unspoken pact.

With Bonnie, I wanted to have my secret and share it, too. To let her in and shut her out. There was a mutual trust that existed between us, the kind I shared with no one else; the shadow side of intimacy is the ability to be petty without cause.

In high school and college, I made peace with burying my brush with fame. (At home, that is. Everyone in my dorm knew my epic secret!) It seemed the opportunity to choose truth had come and gone. Like most teens, I went through bouts of resentment towards my parents. Nothing big, just disagreements here and there. Your classic power struggle.

My time with Ed & The Boys served as a kind of triumph in our cold war. I had lived a life, however briefly, outside of their strict rules, and I liked it. I wasn't about to let someone into that space I'd created in my mind. By that point, it was a stubborn matter of pride. Isn't everything?

When I was about thirty, my grandmother—Bonnie's mom—told me a story that threw me for a loop. When my mom was eighteen, she took off for Broadway against her own parents' wishes, determined to see her name on a marquee.

It wasn't this desire that floored me. She had the personality, the dance moves, the blonde hair that would've given Marilyn Monroe a run for her Hollywood money. It was that she, too, had been raised to be obedient, a respectable Italian girl who knew her place.

Yet she, too, had been drawn in by the lights, the glamour.

I asked Gram what became of those goals. She said Mom gave them up to start a family with my dad. She wanted us more than she wanted fame.

I wish I'd gone to her for a heart-to-heart chat, let her know that there's a touch of the limelight gene in me as well. She a performer, me an avid spectator, two moths drawn to opposing sides of the same flame.

It's worth noting that Bonnie didn't share this segment of her life with her own mother. My grammy had to hear the details from someone else. I never expected our secrets to dovetail, let alone in such a specific way.

I suppose children rarely stop to consider that their parents had lives before they came into being. That they were also teenagers once, brimming with lofty dreams and iffy-but-inspired ideas. Sadly, we don't tend to recognize much of their humanity until they're no longer a phone call or car ride away.

My mother was a complicated, delicate, luminous soul. She could frustrate me, only to become utterly endearing in the next breath.

I happen to be writing this on the eighteenth anniversary of her passing, weepy and downright confused as to where the time has gone. Life provides us with wonderful moments, but it's not a fair fight where the ticking clock is concerned.

All the more reason to sing while you can.

I hope she gets a heavenly chuckle out of my shenanigans. I hope she's thrilled that I was able to rejoice under bright bulbs among shining stars.

I pray I've done her essence and perspective justice. God knows I miss her.

And I love her.