ALL MY LOVING

The sound of glass shattering in the kitchen is followed immediately by an emphatic “Aw shit! Shit! Shit!” from Emily, my older, and only, sibling. This was her third strident outburst since we finished eating dinner. It’s her turn to do the dishes, and her mounting frustration floats into the family room where I’m stretched out on the couch thumbing through 16 Magazine. I glance at the clock: 7:32 p.m. Our parents’ rule that the dishes have to be done before the TV is turned on is sacrosanct. “The Ed Sullivan Show” starts at 8, and Emily is determined not to miss a minute. I think of getting up and helping her, but I decide not to bother. For once, my homework is done and I have nothing to do until bedtime when I’ll climb the stairs to the pink bedroom Emily and I have to share. The splashing from the kitchen gets louder as the clock hands move forward. At 7:57 p.m. Emily rushes into the family room clutching a towel, her hands still wet. 

“Turn it on, turn it on!” she shouts, as if I would move quickly  to do her bidding. Instead, I smile sweetly at her as she swats at me with the dish towel. She moves swiftly past the couch towards the brown behemoth of a cabinet that holds our TV. She grasps the metal handles on the doors, swinging them out to the sides, exposing the picture tube. In a minute the tube begins to glow, and a black and white image appears. Emily turns the channel dial until she finds CBS. Tilting her head to the right, she listens for a moment before she turns up the volume. Satisfied, she scrunches backwards on her butt, assuming a cross-legged position directly in the middle of the screen.

“I can’t see!” I yell. “Your fat head’s in the way!” 

“So move,” she says, not looking at me.

“Move back from the TV, Emily. You’ll ruin your eyes,” Mom says, as she sits down in her maple wood glider. She reaches for the switch on the lumpy milk-glass lamp squatting on the table by her side and turns it on. Meanwhile, Dad has settled in his recliner with his martini, Tanqueray gin, hold the vermouth. The couch, at least for now, is mine. Just another boring Sunday night. 

Dad picks up the TV guide from its appointed place on the table next to him. “Let’s see what’s on tonight.”

Emily whirls to face him. “It’s Ed Sullivan! We always watch Ed Sullivan! I’ve got the channel set ‘n everything. We have to watch the Ed Sullivan Show!” 

We are encased in our Ethan Allen family room inside our humdrum tract house in Buena Park, California, with Knott’s Berry Farm and the Alligator Farm just down the road. Where, from our backyard, we can see the summertime fireworks exploding over Disney’s Magic Kingdom. It’s a normal, Sunday evening in February of 1964. I start to say something: “Hey, Em-“

“Shhh, be quiet!” Emily hisses, as she carefully scoots forward, inching her body closer to the TV.

The announcer’s voice fills our family room and Ed Sullivan walks onto the stage and introduces, for the first time in America, the “youngsters from Liverpool, the Beatles.” 

Emily is mesmerized by the images on the black and white screen. She was the first person in the whole junior high to own a Beatles’ record. Her 13th birthday party last month was a slumber party with 10 of her best friends and they practically wore out the that record, playing it all night. Emily and her friends, giggling and gushing, arguing over the respective charms and declaring their favorite Beatle. Emily prefers Ringo. She thinks Paul is too pretty, George too skinny, and John too serious; besides, John is married and she isn’t that kind of girl.  As if any junior high girl had a chance!

The Beatles begin to play and the camera moves in, showing close-ups of John, Paul, George and Ringo in turn, each name appearing on screen as if Ed Sullivan was introducing them to the world. I look over at Dad and Mom who are watching Emily as she moves to the beat mouthing the lyrics she knows by heart. As the camera highlights Ringo, Emily’s hands frame her smile.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” she moans. 

“I wouldn’t let ‘em in the house,” says Dad. “They all need haircuts and real jobs.” 

George’s solo guitar riff earns even louder clapping and wailing from the studio audience. The smiles on the faces of the girls reflect the smiling faces of the four. Emily mirrors each smile, each twinkle from Ringo’s eyes. She seems to think that Ringo is singing and playing just to her. 

Paul begins Till There Was You and George moves between Paul and John, their heads almost touching as they share a microphone. Emily has her eyes closed now, her lips pursed in a kiss. The camera pans across the audience; Hundreds of teenage girls, many with bangs, bobs, and white headbands identical to Emily’s, are unable to sit still, bewitched by the Fab Four. Emily joins them in some mystical union of crying, swaying, and singing girls, all who have given their hearts to the Beatles. 

Emily is weeping passionately. She pulls her hair back off her face, her hand swiping across her face. She is unable to keep still and with the first bars of She Loves You Emily stands up and begins to dance. The Beatles shake their heads and their hair shimmies under the stage lights. Emily screams. And screams again.

 “Sit down! Right now!” Dad declares. “You’re being ridiculous!”  He looks over at Mom, the muscle along his jaw twitching. “Keep it up, Emily! I’ll turn it off!

Emily backs away from the TV and towards the couch. I move over, giving her room. Our thighs are touching and I can feel her vibrating from every pore. With the first bar of I Want to Hold Your Hand she begins to sing, each word louder and stronger than the last. 

I look over at Dad and he glares back at me. I look at Mom, who is intently watching Dad with her “you better not” face. I look at Emily. She looks different to me, older somehow. She even smells differently; a scent I don’t quite recognize. My foot starts to tap to the beat. Unconsciously I begin to sing along with Emily. Both of us are now moving to the song, crying and clapping, singing along and shaking our heads in unison with John and Paul. Dad is scowling at us; I stare straight back at him as I link arms with Emily. Together, we join with the Beatles for the final chorus.

I want to hold your hand

 I want to hold your hand

I want to hold your hand