It’s as vivid as yesterday. We were happily headed to downtown Everett when KJR radio announced The Beatles concert sold out so they added a Saturday matinee. My sister turned to me with a light in her eyes that instantly told me she was thinking what I was thinking! My purse held $20 Mom had given me to pay the Bon Marche bill. She thoughtfully created such errands so I could drive her new Bonneville.
Now, my natural-born adversary, my little sister, was my instant ally. We both knew calling to ask for permission to attend the concert would take too long, and what if Mom said “no?”
Seattle was the big city to us small-town Everett girls, yet our parents had unwittingly equipped us with the skills and confidence to pull off our plan to see The Fab Four. Multiple trips to the 1962 World’s Fair, site of the Coliseum, where the Beatles concert being held, meant we knew the way and where to park.
Cars were not complicated by computers in the 1960s. In our community, it was a rite of passage for friends to teach the newly licensed 16-year-old drivers (even girls) how to manage the mileage on the family car by disconnecting the odometer. So, we filled up with gas, disconnected the odometer and hit the highway for Seattle.
The Coliseum was already dark as we found our seats low on the sloping left side of the main floor. Below, a sea of restless girls were soon deliriously screaming and dancing. A bit overwhelmed, we hesitated, then I followed my fearless little sister to empty seats closer to the bright circle on stage and sang along with John, Paul, George and Ringo. “Love, love me do…” and “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah…” Life couldn’t get better.
We played it cool at home, implying we had visited friends. I delayed giving Mom her receipt, saying my purse was in the bedroom. The mistake that almost got us caught wasn’t the money. I covered it Monday with a month’s pay from my after-school job and put the receipt on her dresser. We slipped back into our summer routine, confident danger from our adventure was gone.
Our undoing was using Mom’s regular gas station. Next time she filled up, the attendant ran out with a wad of S&H Green Stamps. “Mrs. Duncan, Mrs. Duncan, your daughters didn’t wait for their stamps Saturday.”
We admitted to disconnecting the odometer and driving to Seattle. We kept The Beatles and the $20 secret for decades. At dozens of family gatherings my sister would whisper “Shall we tell Mom about the Beatles?” “No, shhh,” I’d counsel.
We were in our late 30’s preparing turkey dinner when we decided the timing was right for confession. By then, we were reasonably successful adults with children of our own, but Mom reacted as if we were untrustworthy, impulsive teenagers. She got mad. We were stunned that she didn’t appreciate her daughters were the envy of millions for having sung along with The Beatles at one of their last concerts. We were, rightly, contrite.
In hindsight, she was right to believe she deserved better, but couldn’t she have been a little bit glad that we saw them? You can guess the answer. We will carry the guilt of the Beatles Concert to our graves, wishing we’d done it differently but so glad we did it!
Author: Carolyn Duncan
