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ClearDot.gif (85 bytes) The Fab Four & Me (cont.)
. . . . . .

Years later, as a preteen and teenager, I grew to idolize them along with everyone else, and formed a Beatles fan club with my sister. Actually, my sister and her friend Kerry were the co-presidents of the club and I was the first — and only — non-presidential member. There was a difficult entry exam consisting of Beatles trivia, which I luckily passed, but my sister took to blackballing me whenever I got on her nerves. In the beginning, all blackballing was Beatle-related. If she was, say, playing Sgt. Pepper for the 356th time and I suggested we listen to something else, she would become enraged and ask, "Are you asking me to turn off a Beatles record? Blackball!"

• • • • • •
“On the other side of the hedge, that famous
Liverpool voice was yelling at his kids:
"Mary, Stella, get off the court!”

Sadly, the power that came with being co-president of a Beatles fan club drove my sister insane and her blackballing became increasingly irrational and capricious. If I didn't want to fetch her a snack from the kitchen, for example: "Get me some cookies or you're blackballed!" The majority of our Beatles fan club activities consisted of my sister throwing me out of the club, then reinstating me. 

The 1970s brought a rash of other Beatle sightings. Well, near misses. My sister and I spent several weeks one summer sitting across the road from Linda McCartney's father's house in East Hampton, Long Island, hoping Paul would show up. There was a high hedge blocking our view but we could hear the sound of tennis balls popping off racquets on the other side. 

One afternoon, my sister had been on a solo stalk when she came flying through the front door of our rental house, ran into the living room, grabbed her copy of Rubber Soul, and ran back out again. She breathlessly informed me that she had heard McCartney on the other side of the hedge. That famous Liverpool voice that had crooned "Michelle" and "Yesterday" was yelling at his kids: "Mary, Stella, get off the court!" 

We squealed and jumped up and down. Then we hopped on our banana bikes and sped out to meet the Beatle. We never did see him but I was quite sure, if we had, he would have remembered me and asked me how my finger was doing. This would have most likely enraged my sister and resulted in me being blackballed again.

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