This is what I heard on the Writer's Almanac this morning:
"On this day in 1964, the Beatles appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show for the first time." Oh yes, I do remember.
The Beatles arrived, and brought a certain madness with them. The kind that catapulted me up onto the couch, tossing my head as though it wasn't attached to the rest of my body, screeching so loudly I almost drowned out the TV. The Ed Sullivan show. On that night it was the best thing I'd ever seen in my life. Even better than Shari Lewis.
"Get down from there before you get hurt," my mother said. My grandfather said I was acting meshuga. Grandma, eyes on the screen, couldn't believe it — "Look at them, they have hair like girls. Are you positive they are boys? I'm not so positive."
Soon all the girls had Beatles lunch boxes. We never spoke of Dr. Kildare or Ben Casey again. It was Beatles, Beatles all the time.
In the cafeteria you'd sit at the table with whoever's lunch box matched yours. Like a club. Or a gang. A Beatles gang.
My best friend Madeline had a Paul lunchbox. I had George.
We couldn't eat together any more.
The whole world was changing.
