~ Johnny ~

John Lennon was a man who lived during my lifetime.

I first became aware of him in January of 1964, when I was nine years old, living in Mountain View, California. At the time, my father worked for Ampex Corporation, and our family enjoyed music from a beautiful wooden console stereo, complete with reel to reel tape deck, manufactured by Ampex.

Although my father's taste in music leaned towards folk, e.g. the Kingston Trio, The Brothers Four, The Limelighters, etc., he not only allowed but supported my listening to Meet The Beatles, rather loudly, on the stereo.

My fourth grade class put on a program in the multi-purpose room of our school wherein I performed on stage lip-syncing with three other classmates to I Want To Hold Your Hand.

I was John Lennon.

I played a guitar cut from 3/4" plywood by my father on his bandsaw. On stage our "Beatles" all wore shaggy wigs made from black construction paper.

From then on I was hooked.

My father died in 1967 when I was thirteen years old.
But I still had John Lennon.


As I continued to follow the Beatles until their breakup in 1970, and the solo careers of the individual members, I always leaned towards the work of John Lennon. I bought all of his solo albums. My take on Yoko Ono was, if John loves her, then so do I (even if I couldn't listen to her).

John Lennon was with me until that night in 1980, when I was living in Leavenworth, Washington, and Howard Cosell told me during Monday Night Football that John Lennon was dead.

Hero worship?
I don't think so.
I had genuine respect for such a man that would bare his soul so publicly for the things he believed in, and do it in the most universal of languages: music.

In a way, I had two fathers.