I should have been a rock star- John;s 70th birthday

Today would have been the 70th birthday for John Winston (Ono) Lennon. October 9th of 2010.
Yesterday at school, with the thought of his approaching birthday, I had my IPOD set on a shuffle of Lennon tunes. They always bring me back to another era and situation, each song tied to some memory or event that made up the early listening years of my life. And even now, driving the car, “Power to The People” still stirs that rebellious political side of me. “Love” still makes me hope that truly all we do need is love. “Instant karma” connects me to a bigger universe in which we do all shine on.
I always had a ricochet love affair with Lennon and McCartney. As a kid, my siblings and I watched the Beatles cartoons, each of us adopting one of the personas to sing along with. I was drawn to Paul and his carefree like happy songs. As I grew older, John’s music spoke more loudly to me. Although I still loved the idea behind Paul’s usually optimistic music, his “Silly Love Songs” as an angry Lennon would alter call them, John’s raw emotion about conflict and self doubt spoke to me as I emerged into the real world.
“Help” and “Nowhere Man” portray a man weighed down by self doubt. “Imagine” and “Give peace a Chance” provided anthems for a people who wanted a better world. He bared his soul and his dirty laundry in his music, even displaying his struggles with addiction in “Cold Turkey” or fame in “God.”
He was brash and impulsive. It was his 1965 statement; made flippantly to a reporter he thought was a friend that triggered Beatles Lp burnings in the south of the U.S.A. “We’re more popular than Jesus” he had quipped after hearing how many people had attended the Sunday Beatles performance.
IT was that statement that made my Dad, a Southern Baptist deacon, tell me, “I don’t want you to buy any albums by the Beatles.” That was one of the few rules my father had that I actually and secretly circumvented, even to the point of when taken to a new store, Tim, my brother, and I bought an older LP called “Something New.” As we tried to sneak it out to the car, we ran into Dad who asked, “What did you buy?”
Innocently, I shrugged and nonchalantly said, “Oh just something new.” His curiosity satisfied, he turned his attention elsewhere. Years later, dad would come into the kitchen where our turntable rested, and there, I was listening to something from the “White Album” he would say, “One thing about the Beatles, I can understand what they’re saying.”

After years of chasing fame and then running form it, John “retired” from the music business in 1975 for the birth of his son Sean. He became house husband, cook and caregiver for his young son. He left the succubus like spotlight for the calmer confines of home at the Dakota apartments in New York City.
He had danced with fame bigger than even Elvis. He had crossed swords with the Nixon administration over deportation and won. He had survived distain for his new wife Yoko as Beatle fans used her as a scapegoat for the breakup of the group.
A missing John Lennon left a void in my music collection and in my hero worship. It wasn’t that I saw him as anywhere near perfect. In fact, it was his flaws that made him what he was and despite those demons, the ideals of peace and love he promoted while tormented by loss and doubts.

In November of 1980, my wishes came true. John and Yoko released a joint album called “Double fantasy.” The album held songs form a new and more mature Lennon. As he said himself, it was an album directed to an older crowd. In his own words, when asked about the LP, he said, "Here I am now, how are you? How's your relationship going? Did you get through it all? Weren't the '70s a drag? Let’s try and make the '80s good"
The opening cut, “(Just Like) Staring Over” began with 3 soft bells in an optimistic contrast to the harsh bells preceding “Mother” years before. IT was just the right tune at just the right time and in just the right spot on the LP. I was excited to hear John back on the radio.

It was the evening of December 8th, just one month after the release of “Double Fantasy” that brought dealt a horrible blow to those last remnants of 60’s and early 70’s concepts of a world of peace and love.
I sat on a couch grading papers while my roommate, Bud Sexson watched Monday night football. I had headphones on, listening to the stereo. Bud shook my knee… saying “Charlie! Charlie! You have to hear this!”
I took off the head phones and listened as Monday Night Football announcer Howard Cosell relayed the news bulletin. John Lennon had just been shot, outside his New York apartment. I was stunned. Who could possibly do this? What would drive someone to commit such a heinous act?
It was only a few moments later that Cosell followed with the sad news that John Lennon was dead. There were few other details at that moment beyond the black and white news of his death.
I was in shock. Suddenly, one of the heroes of my youth had been struck down by an assassin’s bullet.
MY phone rang twice that night. Both times, people close to me who wanted to see if I had heard the news and check on me. The first call came from my then girlfriend, Cas Turner. Cas was in school at Kansas University and had heard of Lennon’s death there. Cas and I are still friends, exchanging e-mails and Facebook news.
The second call came from a student of mine, Ashley Peck. Ashley knew of my Beatle and Lennon obsession. She is the person whom later I would reconnect with while she was in college and eventually marry. Twenty Three years later, we are still married. Over the years she and our two sons have fed my Beatle and Lennon obsession with various related box sets and T shirt gifts.
As Christmas break 1980 approached, Cas drove down from Kansas to visit me. She was already out of classes at K.U. and I had a few days left before the high school broke for the season. That morning, she rode with me as I drove a bus route for an absentee driver. The weather was cold, and the breath of waiting riders rose like steam around them as I pulled the yellow school bus to each stop along the rural route.
The windows were fogged and teeth chattered as young kids in coats and stocking caps trundled through the aisle to sit against each other for collective bogy warmth on the ill heated bus.
Cas sat on the front seat, katty-cornered to my driver’s seat. IT was just as I pulled away from some forgotten stop that the three bells sounded softly over the squeaky bus radio. It was John. And looking back over my shoulder at Cas at that moment, we both smiled because of that song.
He couldn’t have left us with a better sentiment.