Happy Birthday John

I took this picture a little over three years ago. The mosaic lies in the Strawberry Fields section of Central Park. It is across the street from The Dakota, where John Lennon lived with Yoko and Sean. Walking up Central Park West, I saw it grow in front of me until the size of the immense building became obvious. Twenty-five years, then, after John was murdered, it gave me chills to be there. Nobody had to tell me which building it was. I couldn't have forgotten the images from the night he was shot if I had tried.
One of the happiest October 9ths I have experienced happened six years ago tonight. Paul McCartney was playing the venue then known as the Savvis Center in St. Louis. Shannon and I were fortunate to be in the audience. Paul's shows are always fun, but on that night, he acknowledged that it was John's birthday, and seemed to choke up for a moment. Then, in response to a call from the front of the crowd, he led us in an impromptu "Happy Birthday" to his late partner. Later in the show, Paul played "Something" on a ukelele that George had given him, as a tribute to another departed friend. It was a world away from the anger and hurt of the band's breakup. It truly felt like a little glimpse into the love that the lads from Liverpool had felt for one another.
John should be 68 today. He should be enjoying grandchildren with Yoko. He should still be making his beautiful, startling, searing music. "Double Fantasy" had just served notice that John was still up to the task when his life was cut short.
One of the generational divides: my parents and their contemporaries remember where they were when JFK, MLK and RFK were shot and killed. People my age talk about where they were when Howard Cosell interrupted the broadcast of another dopey Monday Night Football game with the announcement:
"This, we have to say it, remember this is just a football game, no matter who wins or loses. An unspeakable tragedy, confirmed to us by ABC News in New York City: John Lennon, outside of his apartment building on the West Side of New York City, the most famous, perhaps, of all The Beatles, shot twice in the back, rushed to the Roosevelt Hospital, dead on arrival."
The murderer involved actually shot John four times, in front of his wife.
And that night, December 8, 1980, is precisely when the Sixties ended.