This
is a story of my experience in the overpopulated baby boom
generation. It is also a story of love; imagined love, and a mother’s
real love.
My
husband and I are members of the baby boom generation. I am a boomer
simply because of the incidental timing of my birth in 1951. My
husband is an authentic boomer according to the strict definition of
why there was a boom in babies. His father, and many other war
veterans, came home from World War ll and started growing a family.
In the years following World War ll, children were multiplying like
rabbits.
It’s
been 55 years since I was in junior high school. My memory of
everything in junior high is that it was crowded. The baby boom
generation rolled in and filled the school to capacity. There was
standing room only in the classrooms. When no more desks could be
crammed in, students were seated on a wide window ledge. These days,
that would be considered child abuse and in violation of a safety
code.
The
cafeteria was bursting at the seams with students and their noise. It
was not a welcome place for a quiet girl like me. I stepped into the
noise and slipped into one of the few empty seats. The girls around
me were engaged in a spirited discussion. The all-important topic of
their debate was, “Which Beatle do you love?” It was
1964. The Beatles had arrived in America and Beatlemania was in full
swing. It was the responsibility of every adolescent girl to pick her
favorite Beatle. Most girls decided they were “in love”
with Paul. He was the cute one and the obvious choice. Some girls
picked John, and a few zany girls chose Ringo. Paul would have been
my choice, but I’ve never been one to follow the crowd. I like
an underdog. I chose George because I felt sorry for him. No one else
at my cafeteria table picked George as their favorite. He was “the
quiet Beatle”. George and I had a connection. We were the quiet
ones in a world full of noise. I convinced myself I was in love with
George Harrison. I wanted to hold his hand and send all my love to
him. In spite of the love I conjured up for George, I carried a torch
for Paul. It was hard to resist that cute little Paul McCartney
smile. Those thoughts seem silly now, but such were the imaginings of
my 13-year-old self. In 1964 I really believed George Harrison needed
my love.
My
suppressed desire to pick Paul as my favorite may have
unintentionally influenced an important choice later in my life.
Fast-forwarding to 1989, I had a son and I named him Paul. Did I have
Paul McCartney in mind when I named my son Paul? If that was my
thinking, it was not a deliberate thought. By 1989, my infatuation
with the Beatles was a crazy thing in my past; something I believed
in yesterday. If I did have a latent desire for a son with the Paul
McCartney 1964 smile, my son fit the bill perfectly. See for
yourself!
It
is presumptuous to compare my son to Sir Paul McCartney. My son is
not famous, has never been knighted, and has no special musical
talent. But he played an important role in my life. I probably would
not be typing this story if Paul had not been born into our family.
When Paul was very young he was having trouble learning to talk. My
concern for him and my experience as an elementary teacher naturally
took over, and I thought of ways to encourage him to talk. One of the
ways was to make little books with him. The books were simple, with a
big picture and one word on each page. Paul’s vocabulary
increased as he “read” the words in the books. He was
motivated to make the books because he enjoyed using our first home
computer and printer. As time went on, and Paul learned to say more
and more words, our homemade books had more words on each page. Then,
the words became sentences that told a story. Eventually, Paul lost
interest in making the books, but I continued to write stories. My
enjoyment of writing was born, and Paul’s enjoyment of anything
related to computers was born. I still have some of those simple
books. They remind me of my progress as a writer. I started with
writing one word on a page, and progressed to writing more than one
thousand words in this story. The simple books also remind me of my
son’s progress in life. He started with a severe speech and
language delay, and progressed to earning a Master of Science Degree
in Software Engineering. Today, he has a successful career as a
software engineer. Who would have thought those simple books could
have such an impact on our lives?
We
still have the Apple llc computer and ImageWriter printer that were
used to make the books. The old computer and printer are stored in
our attic. They have been replaced by more modern technology.
Unfortunately, my computer skills have not progressed along with the
newer computer. I rely on my son (and my husband) for computer
knowledge that I lack. My son’s computer expertise surpassed my
own a long time ago. Truth be told, any 10-year-old probably has more
computer skills than this old baby boomer.
Some
of the old homemade books are stored in a dresser drawer. Once in a
while, I look through them and reminisce about the fun we had making
them. The books include such intriguing titles as, “In My
Pocket”, “In My Room”, and “Paul Likes Dogs”.
They are not great literature, but they have great value as family
keepsakes.
George
Harrison died without ever knowing he had me as a fan - little old
me, a quiet girl, crowded into a tiny space at my junior high
cafeteria table, eating my tuna sandwich, and convincing myself I
“loved” George. Perhaps I should have named a son after
George in memory of my imagined love.
Here’s
some baby boomer wisdom for you, my son. I’ve learned that
imagined love is fleeting, and a mother’s real love is
lasting.
P.S.,
I Love You
Contact
Patricia (Unless
you
type
the
author's name in
the subject
line
of the message we
won't know where to send it.)
