The Octopus is Paul

Happy Birthday to Ringo Starr, even if I am one day late.

Peace and Love to All.

Anyone of my generation has a Beatles' Story and, of course, I'm no exception.

When I was 18, my father took me to Italy to introduce me to his homeland and to his friends and relatives. Pop was born in Sampierdarena which is part of Genova.

I do recall the happy times meeting all the strangers, some of whom, looked like me or rather, I looked like them. It was great to see one's own face and to feel part of a people and a country.

Having grown up in the America of Madmen, that is, the blondes like Grace Kelly and Marilyn Monroe, I never did really feel as if I fit in anywhere. Italy, however, was home and my father was a different person there, rediscovering what he had left behind. Perhaps, I felt that, too, but there were times when he was still the same old crank. At 18, I could not understand what he had also lost.

There were ten years between my father and his brother, my uncle, Zio Andrea. My grandmother had lost 5 children between them. My father was drafted when my uncle was just 13 and he did not see him again until 1960. I wasn't on that trip but I guess, now, they were brothers in name only and that's not an insult to either of them.

War had separated them and it separated them forever.

There was tension between them and I couldn't wait to leave Genova and return to Rome where my father's friends were. The Rosetti's are a great family and to this day Sandra and Roberto and I are still friends, as close as brother and sister. In fact, I sent Roberto his first Bob Dylan record when Dylan was unknown in Italy, but that's another story.

Back to dying to leave Genova: we were all set to go and the Beatles came to town. My uncle, was a journalist and he knew, not my father, that an 18 year old would give her wisdom teeth (if she had any) to see the Beatles. He got tickets for me and my cousins and the trip to Rome was postponed for a few days.

I still remember that Saturday night. The theatre was small and there were no girls crying, screaming or pulling out their hair. You could actually hear the Beatles and their songs. Paul learned a few Italian words and everyone was shouting and thrilled each time he spoke.

My cousins were so happy and we were on our feet the entire time. They kept hugging me because they knew they never would have seen the Beatles if I had not wanted to stay and begged my uncle to intercede. I had a family at last.

I retain my ticket that says Beatles: Genova and my souvenir program and an Italian LP of the Beatles. The feeling, however, of being part of a family is still with me in memory only.

The last time I saw my cousins they were now married with adult children of their own. The first words to escape their lips was "Do you remember when we saw the Beatles?"

I always will.

I shall also always remember the father who took me to his homeland and the uncle who, for one moment in time, made his 18 year old niece's dream come true.

Happy Birthday, Ringo!

Many, many more - making music.

Incidentally, the psychic octopus of the World Cup has a name.

The octopus is Paul.