Imagine

All four of us were in the car the other night, returning from a trip to the grocery store.  The kids had chosen to listen to The Beatles on the way home and were bopping and grooving in their carseats in the backseat of our crowded Jetta. 

"My like that song!  My like it!" Violet crowed as I Wanna Hold Your Hand started.  She grinned from ear to ear and chimed in with the occasional end of phrase as the song played.

Ever the thinker, Milo started asking questions.

"Dad, where do The Beatles live?"

"Hmm...  I don't know.  They probably have several homes, maybe in London, LA, and New York."

"Do they all live together?"

"No."

"Can we go visit them?  If they live in California, we can take an airplane like we did when we went to California.  We could go to their house and say, 'Hi!' and I could tell them that I love the song Dear Prudence.  Could we do that?"

His little face shone with expectation.  Scott and I glanced sideways at each other, unsure of how to answer this request. 

"Umm... sure, buddy..."

It is highly unlikely that either Ringo or Paul would welcome our darling son for a two minute conversation, particularly because his shyness would kick in and the remaining Beatles would be talking to a small child hiding behind my large bum.  Yes, the mental picture of knighted rock superstars talking to my bum IS pretty funny, unless you are said legends.

Although, I guess I shouldn't be surprised -- the soundtrack of my childhood was a mixture of The Beatles, the Beach Boys, Neil Diamond, and Three Dog Night.  There was one particular house in my hometown that stood out to me, perhaps every time we passed it Sweet Caroline was playing, but I was convinced that this modest (and now dilapidated) two-story was Neil Diamond's home.  Because it just was.  Never mind that it was highly unlikely that he would choose a 1400 square foot home in a smallish city in Eastern Iowa.  He DID live there, and I challenge any of you to a duel if you try to dispute it.

So, of course it seems completely appropriate that my son thinks it is entirely possible to hop on a plane and visit his musical idols.  Isn't that what their music is supposed to do -- spark imagination?  Cuckoo-ca-choo!