A Winter's Tale

 

December 1981, one year later

On the evening of December 8, 1980, Barbara and I were in the kitchen of my house on Walk Circle cleaning up after dinner. She still owned her ancient, almost dainty house across the street but had moved in with me and the girls, Molly and Vanessa, ages 11 and 6. We were becoming a family and it felt good.

     It was a cozy, tight-knit neighborhood that included turn-of-the-century summer cottages that had become homes for a new generation. The previous generation of owners had passed away, leaving many places vacant and ramshackle. The kids whispered about ghosts peering out the windows while they danced around like magical fairies through the vacant lots chasing butterflies through the wild, yellow daisies and orange nasturtiums.

Our rim of the circle included a mixed bag of characters and kids, some neglected even, but part of the pack. We were in the midst of a small black community that had settled in the Santa Cruz "circles," families of soldiers who had served in the war, stationed at Fort Ord. Mother Brown held monthly barbecues at her house around the corner to raise money for her church, the Friendly Family of Christ.

That night Molly burst into the kitchen, her dark hair flying and eyes wide open. “Dad, you knew John Lennon, didn’t you? He was just killed.”

The announcement had been made on the television in the other room where the Monday Night Football Game was being broadcast.

We all moved to the front room to find out what had happened. He was shot and killed near his apartment, The Dakota, in New York City by a young man. It was big news.

Starting Over

I had recently purchased his latest album, Double Fantasy which had been a comeback for him, a love letter to both his wife Yoko Ono and their son, Sean. Perhaps the most popular song was “Starting Over,” about his and Yoko’s getting back together after a raucous separation. She, of course, had been blamed for the break-up of the Beatles. John had been making headlines for wild partying in Hollywood, filling the pages of Rolling Stone magazine with gossipy buzz.

Barbara and I, who were going through our own on-again, off-again courtship, had adopted “Starting Over” as our theme song. It was played often, as was the entire album, in our house. Molly knew John’s name by osmosis, if nothing else.

At the time I was working as editor of several publications in Santa Cruz, one being a senior citizen weekly called The News that had grown out of the mobile home park community in the county. Those parks were predominantly occupied by retirees. As editor, I had a great deal of latitude regarding content, although the bulk of the paper was filled with stories and gossip contributed by correspondents from the parks.

John’s death moved me to write a personal story for The News about my thoughts regarding the shooting and what his music meant to me. I put a hard-copy — a typewritten version — into an envelope and sent it to Rolling Stone. Then forgot about it.

The holiday season was upon us. Molly wanted a new bicycle. Vanessa wanted a Cabbage Patch doll. I wanted to find something for Barbara. It would either be an item of jewelry or maybe something to wear that I knew she wanted. There was a store downtown that featured stylish clothing mostly for women called Cat & Canary. A woman named Kathleen was owner of the store. She knew Barbara and was always a good source of ideas for me.

While downtown I dropped into the Basic Exchange. We called it the BX. It was a popular warehouse of stuff, mostly clothes, a great place for jackets and sweaters and related cold weather ware. I happened to see a leather bomber jacket, tried it on and it fit. I couldn’t believe the price, $50.

I purchased several items as gifts and on a whim decided to buy the jacket. When the clerk rang it up for $150, I was shocked.

“I’ll have to leave the jacket,” I said. It was beyond my budget. I had not seen the “1” in front of the “50.” I was slightly embarrassed.

At home I happened to mention my silly mistake to Barbara. We both laughed. I have always been fairly good about making fun of myself. Rightly so. I can be a “space case.”

Surprise Gift

The Saturday following John’s death, we all headed off to the Flea Market, held at the Soquel Drive Inn, at the time still a drive-in movie theater at night. Everyone brought their surplus things to sell at the Flea Market — just about anything that might draw 50-cents out of someone else’s pocket. Conversely, you could find great deals on unexpected items, or something particular that you were searching for — from a bird cage to pair of socks. The burritos were good, too.

  One of our Walk Circle neighbors sold illegal tapes at the Flea Market. That Saturday we saw several neighbors. It was especially memorable because at 12 noon an announcement was made over a loudspeaker.

“We ask that you stop what you’re doing for a moment of silence while we remember John Lennon.” “Imagine” was then played over the sound system, filling the still air with one of his most memorable songs.

“Imagine there’s no countries/ It isn’t hard to do/ Nothing to kill or die for/ And no religion, too/ Imagine all the people/ Living life in peace/ You may say that I’m a dreamer/ But I’m not the only one/ I hope someday you’ll join us/ and the world will be as one.”

 
I think we all believed it was possible.
   
     Christmas came and it was kind of a blur. Except for the basketball that Barbara gave me. She knew I loved shooting hoops. I had installed a basketball backboard and hoop on a post in front of our house. We had shoot-arounds and games out on the street.

Except the square box she presented me wrapped in red paper with a bow actually contained the leather jacket from the BX. I was shocked. And embarrassed. It seemed too much. I quite frankly was overwhelmed.

In January I received another unexpected “gift” when I answered the phone.

“Is this Kevin?”
“Yes.”

“This is Gary Shapiro at Cymbaline Records. I really liked what you wrote in Rolling Stone.”

“What?” I was speechless.

“Come down to the store,” he said. “I’ll give you a copy. I want to meet you.”

The piece that I had written for The News had been edited down to a shorter version, yet it was the longest letter in a commemorative issue of Rolling Stone magazine dedicated to the life of John Lennon, January 22, 1981. Over the years I have heard from friends and others who say they ran across my letter. As recent as a few years ago, I received a message from someone on Facebook asking me if I was the same person who wrote that letter.

Chalk it up to my 15 minutes of fame.

That winter, we were preparing to go out with a couple that we knew, Chuck and Kay. I had just put on my jacket when Kay remarked:

“That jacket is just like John wore."
     The following winter, Barbara and I were married on Christmas Eve. Molly and Vanessa stood next to us wearing matching burgundy-colored dresses with yellow flowers. 

Barbara, Molly and Vanessa

The Letter

        When my daughter burst into the kitchen last night with the news that

          Lennon was dead, shot in the back, the association with John Kennedy

          was unavoidable; it was the same empty feeling of despair and tragedy.

          "You knew John Lennon, didn't you, dad?" my eleven-year-old asked. 

          I didn't know him personally, but I felt has if I knew him well. I had been

          listening to Double Fantasy for the last couple of weeks. It made me feel

          good to hear John's voice again, still rocking at age forty and yet more

          mellowed and more satisfied than I'd ever heard him. I had wanted to 

          grow old with John, having followed him for nearly twenty years. My

          parents had the pleasure of sharing the aging process with their favorite

          stars -- Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Frank Sinatra, George Burns. Nobody

          knocked them off with a bullet in the back. Why is my generation plagued

          with gun-toting crazies whose sick morality must weigh on this be-

          wildered world?

               Rock critics hace, for the last five years, urged John to play again.

          "You owe it to us," the wrote. When John took out an ad in the New York

          Times last year and wished everyone "peace," the rock pundits found his 

          language passe, "anachronisms from the peace-love era," they said. What

          did they want? I've learned not to read reviews, at least not until I've had

          the opportunity to digest the work myself. I did, however, happen to read

          a review of Double Fantasy that was so caustically unfair and ill-conceived

          that I wondered what planet the writer had come from. It seems that in our

          attempt to be new and artistic, abrasive and trendy, indignant and political,

          we've lost touch with something much more important: the human and 

          artistic right to be honest and loving. It made me happy to see John happy. 

          It makes me sad to see John dead. It makes me think we should take a good

          long look at ourselves before something like this happens again.

      

From Silence of the Oranges ©2019 by Kevin Samson, a working title memoir.