We walked down the sloping path as Paul McCartney and his girlfriend ambled up in the opposite direction. When I knew we were out of earshot, I whispered to Patrick, “Okay, I need to talk about this.”
“Okay.”
“Did I behave all right?”
“You were fine. Here, Lily,” he said, raising his arms up to her, “Come sit on my shoulders for a while, I think your mommy needs a break.” Lily leaned towards Patrick, and he swooped her up onto his shoulders.
“That was Paul frigging McCartney, Patrick! Aren’t you the least bit excited? I’m practically numb. I’m not sure if I’m smiling or if my feet are even touching the ground.”
“I don’t really get excited about celebrities.”
“He’s not just a celebrity. I could handle that—he’s a Beatle.”
Patrick nodded. “I was impressed at how down to earth he was, and how kind he was to Lily.”
“That’s my point! He was so normal. He picks flowers just like Lily does.”
The dogs chased a rabbit under a low scrub oak, sending a flock of small birds scattering. Lily squealed with delight. Patrick ran ahead with her, trying to scare up more birds.
I lagged behind thinking about how the Beatles’ music was so intricately woven into my memories. I learned “Yesterday” on the piano and during my parents’ divorce, played it over and over. In my adolescence, I learned a dance combination to “Come Together” and performed it so well, I began to take dance more seriously, imagining it as the career it later became.
“Blackbird” was my favorite Beatles song because I always drifted back to an evening in 1979, to New York and a gathering of artist friends at a loft in Soho. Intoxicated on wine and good food, we sat around after dinner and sang “Blackbird” again and again as our host strummed it, badly, on his old guitar. At first we laughed trying to remember the words, but we ended up singing in earnest, moved by the poetry. In time, the AIDS epidemic took many of those friends, leaving me with the hauntingly fitting lyrics to remind me of them:
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
And now “Let It Be” would no longer be an ambiguous recollection of a Beatles’ movie at the end of their career together; instead it would be forever etched in my mind as the day Paul McCartney sang to my young daughter on a dog path in the Santa Monica Mountains. As I continued to walk, I thought about the way music evokes memories, the way it has the power to heal, motivate, and change perception—not just of one person, but of entire societies.
I stepped up my pace, focusing on Lily now, wondering what experiences or inspiring moments would be carved into her memory, what songs would remind her of important people and moments. Rounding a bend in the road, I caught sight of our dogs resting in the shade of a thorny bush. Patrick and Lily were picking purple sage.
“Patrick, do you think Lily will remember meeting Paul McCartney?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“I bet one day, when she’s older, she and her friends will rediscover the Beatles and she’ll have her own connection to their music. I bet she’ll carry those songs and memories with her into the future—long after all the Beatles are gone.”
“Too deep, Cheryl!”
“Okay.”
I lifted Lily off Patrick’s shoulders and took her hand, and we walked on.
A week later, around the same time in the morning, Lily and I took our dog, Candy, back to our path, this time without Patrick and his dog. I secretly wondered if Paul would be there, too. Lily was talkative, and we were walking slowly, at her pace, hand in hand. As we rounded a corner, sure enough, there were Paul and his girlfriend.
“Well, hello again,” I said. They stopped and petted the dog.
“Hey, I know you,” Paul said to Lily. Then he added, “and I like your hat.” Lily put her hand on her head and giggled. It was a knitted Peruvian hat with a pink center and a green brim.
“My birthday hat.”
“Oh?”
“It was her birthday yesterday,” I said
“How old are you, Lily?”
“Three,” she said trying to arrange her fingers to show him.
He touched his finger to her nose. “Well I just had a birthday two days ago,” he said.
“Oh, you’re a Gemini!” I blurted out.
“I suppose I am,” he replied vaguely.
Why had I said that? I never say stuff like that. Maybe “Wow, you and Lily are both born in June, how auspicious!” or, “Gee, what a birthday present you turned out to be!” would have sounded better. I was glad Patrick wasn’t there to hear that line and I silently thanked God that three-year-olds never stop talking.
“You know what?” Lily continued, “I’m going to share my babies with Bronte.” Paul looked at me for translation.
I rushed to explain, “Lily’s birthday party is this Saturday and she’s going to share her dollies with her friend Bronte.”
“Oh, I see,” he said to Lily.
“That’s Candy,” she said pointing to our dog who suddenly lay down in the shade of our shadows, panting hard under the heat of the sun.
“Is that your doggy?” Paul asked. Lily nodded yes.
“She’s very pretty,” he said bending down to pet her.
“She’s hot,” Lily replied.
“Aren’t we all? Well …” he said as he stood up, “We should let you keep walking her. Have a very nice day, Lily, and Happy Birthday.”
“You, too.” She turned to Paul’s friend, “What’s your name?”
“My name is Heather,” she said smiling warmly at Lily.
“Okay then,” I said, feeling like my small Chatty Kathy would keep on talking if I didn’t intervene and it wasn’t just warm anymore; it was sweltering.
