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San Francisco Examiner,
Thursday, August 10, 1967 FLOWER CHILDREN, BEATLE
GEORGE & WIFE PATTIE How does it feel to be
one of the beautiful people? Beatle George Harrison
and wife Pattie Boyd were seen among the crowd of flower children at Golden
Gate Park in San Francisco Monday afternoon.
George and Pattie flew in from Los Angeles by private jet and wended
their way through the crowd up Hippie Hill.
The Beatle regaled the audience with a bit from "Baby, You're a
Rich Man," much to the crowd's delight.
When he refused to play more songs, the crowd converged upon the pair
as they fled and sped into a waiting car.
The impromptu Beatle performance lasted little more than a few
minutes. The pair spent several days in California visiting Pattie's sister, Jenny in Los Angeles. George and Pattie blended to a certain extent among their young audience, with their brightly patterned clothing, buttons and beads. George was seen wearing a flower button, much the au courant symbol of the times. *** Many is the time I have pored
over the article, scrutinizing each face in the picture hoping to see my
mother. My mother could have
been in that picture. She left her home of creature comforts and relative
ease in Boston for the rigors and hardships of life in a communal setting, a
well-populated flat in Haight-Ashbury. My mother, nee Amanda, slid
naturally and easily into communal living.
Like so many of her peers during the mid-1960s, my mother renounced
academics and a seemingly conventional lifestyle in a seemingly conventional
home in a seemingly conventional suburb of Boston. By all accounts, my mother was the prototypical,
stereotypical rebel. She took
the 1960s rebellion steps further by forming a short-lived garage band in
late 1964, the only girl in the area to make this move.
She was also the only female member of that garage band. A faded news clipping from a Boston newspaper replete with a
faded photograph shows the Sun Beams, as they were known, with my mother in
the foreground. My mother was a
flower child, slightly ahead of her time.
In matching and pairing up these somewhat related articles, I could
all too easily see how my mother became yet another daisy in the chain who
answered the siren song resonating from the West Coast. There are places I'll
remember, all my life, though some have changed Never a conformist even by flower
child standards, my mother did not end up in the Golden City by way of
thumb, VW bus, or even Greyhound bus. My
mother was part of the New England culture she was determined to flee. She
scrimped and saved by performing in smoky coffee houses (was there such a
thing in those days as a coffeehouse that wasn't smoky?) and the
Campus Circuit during 1964-1965. It
was during this period that she decided to catch a silver bird winging west
instead of a Greyound Bus, San Francisco bound. You fly out as your smile
wears thin What bravery, I think now.
Imagine being that resourceful at age 16 and that willing to take
such a chance. Had my mother
not taken that silver bird, had not dropped out of the 11th grade despite my
grandparents' many protests, threats and entreaties and promise of their
1958 Ford Fairlane, which later went to my uncle and aunt-in-law, would I be
avidly reading her diary now? Lonely nights, traveling far Doubtful.
I think of that long and winding road that ultimately led to me.
My mother left Boston without a word to anyone and, according to
notes in a cheap, blue-flowered diary, had the plane ticket sent to an
anonymous post office box. Sometime
after 6:30 p.m. on November 19, 1965, she hitched a ride to Logan Airport
with a number of students, folkhounds, Beatle fans and other artists. There, she renamed herself Amber Rain and caught an evening
plane to San Francisco, never to return to Boston alive. *** I've always been distinctive;
that is the one thing everyone who knows me can agree on.
I was born a flower child. I
took my first independent breath on Tuesday, October 18, 1966, on the heels
of the Beatles' swan song concert in San Francisco, which had taken place a
month and a half prior to my birth. The
name I was given, Sunrise Bluebird (because you were like a sunrise, new
and beautiful, my birth was noted in the diary) further served to
distinguish me. Ironically,
having such a name in San Francisco during the height of flower power was
viewed as natural and commonplace. I was born in a small, church-run
clinic a mere stone's throw from Golden Gate Park.
A group of Amber Rain's friends passed the hat around on our behalf
so as to ensure that we both got proper care.
My first home was in a small crash pad on Haight, inhabited by many
people. My layette was second
hand, lovingly donated by area churches and whatever my communal family
could scrape up. It would be easy for someone who
was not part of this lifestyle to jump to the erroneous conclusion that my
communal "relatives" were weirdo freaks and that I was deprived.
Neither was the case. I
wore the finest Salvation Army and Goodwill clothing; my communal relatives
tie-dyed and put together the rest of my wardrobe.
My lullabies were the Beatles, Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix,
Janis Joplin, the Who and various street performers and many other
psychedelic bands of the day. My
television was the live technicolor scenery of brightly, gaudily painted and
garbed people in the neighborhood and Golden Gate Park. The living room I played in was a
grand assortment of salvaged street furniture and boxes; my play area was an
inverted crate somebody had filched from a delivery truck.
"California's Finest Fruits" was emblazoned in flowing
green script, with a flower dotting each i.
Very apropos, this. I
enjoyed many an outing in yet another crate - Amber Rain and my communal
family had nailed two pairs of roller skates onto an apple crate and
attached a paisley strap to it so I could be toted about in style.
All of my meals were fruits and
vegetables from the co-op and the church kitchen, lovingly whirred down to a
liquified state on a donated blender. My
baby book was a speckled school notebook. My developmental milestones were lovingly recorded in the
hippie vernacular of the day and someone even drew a series of psychedelic
hearts and flowers with the inscription, Sunrise Bluebird, may you never
become corupt [sic] by ego and greed.
Stay pure like a happy bluebird on the second to last page.
I received my booster shots and check ups at the Free Clinic on 558
Clayton, which opened on June 9, 1967.
Being treated there was somewhat of an honor - I was one of the Free
Clinic's first very young clients. This information did not come
from a series of memories, post hoc or otherwise. It came from a series of photographs lovingly stored in a
green album; the blue-flowered diary and an old reel-to-reel film, a note,
photographs and a tape that I received by FedEx some 30 years later. All of these items were shipped
back to Boston along with me in late 1967 shortly after Amber Rain's death.
Amber Rain died, apparently from an overdose, on Friday, September
29, 1967. Since she used my
grandparents’ address on my birth certificate, my communal family was able
to contact them and see that all necessary arrangements were made for them
to come to San Francisco and bring me home. It's all too much for me to
see...it's all too much for me to take... Naturally, I came as something of
a shock to them. My
grandparents could not relate to the Flower Child generation and were
appalled by the only home I knew. I
can well imagine the looks on their faces as they took in the vibrant
posters on the walls; the macrame hammock that held flower pots containing
marijuana; the street furniture and the towels that doubled as curtains. I obviously have no conscious memory of this sudden upheaval,
but I always find the accounts quite interesting. She (what did we do that was
wrong) The place Amber Rain and I called
home and the people we recognized as our family were an affront to my Boston
relatives’ straitlaced sensibilities.
Even my very name caused ructions and tongue-wagging among them.
The absence of a father's name on my birth certificate caused even
more speculation. I did not
know then and don't know now who my natural father was, but I think I do
know some things about whoever he was. I know he had to have had red hair and an aptitude for math.
Neither one of these traits were present among my maternal relatives
in Boston. Not knowing this really did not
distinguish me among my peers. Once
all the necessary funeral and travel arrangements had been made, I was taken
to Boston and raised by Amber Rain's older brother and sister-in-law, both
of whom were 15 years her senior. I
was raised alongside my older cousins, with scant mention of my origins in
California. Ironicially, one
tangible reminder of Amber Rain's flight was that 1958 Ford Fairlane, the
very car she had turned down in favor of life in the Golden City. This is not to say that the
question of my early days never came up; for a period of time I ruthlessly
plied my Boston relatives with questions.
Oh, they answered as best they could and, while not apt to criticize
Amber Rain overtly, they made it quite plain that they thought eschewing a
"conventional, proper New England upbringing" to "chase
bohemian rainbows" as something they just could not understand. The more I learn, the less I
know... Cryptic clues traveled east with
me. My meager belongings, along
with the diary and the notebook were put away "for safe keeping"
along with a piece of blue paper bearing the inscription, "The more
answers you have, the more questions you'll ask.
Never let your mind go still," with a trademark signature I
would not see until more than three decades had passed. From time to time, I'd take a
ribbing from my cousins or some classmate about being born a flower child.
One year somebody actually pulled up some fuzzy, half-dead dandelions
and left them on my desk with a crudely-scrawled note note that read,
"blow way dandelion." This was apparently a nod to the Rolling Stones' classic, Dandelion
OR a personal dig. Since I was
never in-crowd material, I opted for the latter to explain this act.
I never found out who left the dandelions or the note. My hair color made me more
conspicuous than I would have liked. It
was bright red, which does not tend to go unnoticed. Since I knew of no other redheaded relatives, and Amber
Rain's hair was a dull blonde, I could only conclude that my red hair was a
paternal donation. Rather than
lament over being the lone redhead in my home, I viewed my hair as a link, a
clue to my natural father. The
only common physical trait I shared with my maternal relatives was my small
stature and obvious resemblance to Amber Rain. I would often brag to my peers
that I was brought up by the Beatles, Jefferson Airplane and the Who.
As a lifetime Beatles' fan, I would, in time come to see just how
chillingly accurate my youthful boasts were. My lifelong journey to uncover my
origins did not end in either San Francisco or Boston.
Unlike Amber Rain, I adjusted to my life in New England, graduated on
time ("the 4-year plan") and earned my degree.
Much to my grandparents' dismay, I earned my undergraduate degree
from UC Berkeley and my M.A. from Stanford.
Although there was general unease over my decision to go to the West
Coast, it was plain that I was heading west for reasons vastly different
from Amber Rain's decades earlier. I
won't deny that curiosity and fascination with my early days motivated me to
a certain extent, but that was not my sole reason for relocating to
California. Oh, I had what I thought was a
mainstream life, and from all outward appearances, I did.
UC-Berkeley, with all its respelendent joys and sorrows of academic
and social life; Stanford, with its very name the stamp of high
accomplishment and later, a highly pleasant social life. I had no fear of where I was
treading *** A phone call.
A letter. Sometimes
both. Either form of
communication has the power to change people's lives permanently.
In my case, the latest disruption was caused by both. My older cousin Michael and I had
always shared a deep bond. We
viewed one another as siblings as opposed to cousins. We lived on opposite coasts; he was an attorney living in
Vermont and remaining comfortable in New England climes. Since he and I had always enjoyed a close relationship,
receiving a phone call from him was not at all unexpected. Neither was the package he sent me via FedEx.
He heralded its arrival with a telephone call, letting me know it
would be arriving a day before he did. The tectonic shifts in my life
came about from the contents of that package and the actual
conversation that we had. On
February 4, 2005 I learned that George Harrison and I had actually met. At one time, I actually "knew" a Beatle! "Michael, are you
sure?" I demanded.
I didn't like tricks. "Yeah, I'm sure. When I took
that business trip to England in 2000, I had the top Beatle archivists and
specialists verify and appraise this stuff.
Those documents are in the file I am about to show you.
Sunrise Bluebird, you did not come from San Francisco with a small
bag of oddments. You came back
to Boston with a veritable fortune."
This was all too much.
Me, commune born and raised?
Me actually know a Beatle?!
And my favorite Beatle at that?
If this was some kind of a trick.... It's all too much for me to
see...it's all too much for me to take... "Look, Sunrise, I know what
you are thinking. Yeah, I've
been a wiseass and I like a good joke and can be a king sized pain in the
ass, but I would never make this stuff up.
Did you open that package?"
“No, I haven’t yet.”
"Good.
I'm glad you waited. Wait
until I get there. I will be
flying into Oakland Airport on tomorrow at 7:30.
That's 10:30 East Coast time and as per my e-mail, I'll only be there
until Wednesday. I sent the
package a day early because I wanted it safe with you until I got there and
I don't trust those electronic scanners at the airport.
I can't wait to see you. And,"
he added mischievously, "that package you are not going to open until I
get there." After engaging
in some light hearted banter, I hung up and all thoughts turned to that
FedEx package. Michael knew very good and well I
wasn't going to open that package until he arrived. Sometimes I forget we're cousins and think we really are
siblings. Michael trusts me,
I kept thinking. That was the
only thing that kept me from racing to the closet and getting out that
package and opening it. I
can't betray his trust. He
even had the package fully insured. *** Saturday, February 5, 2005 was
ushered in by blue birds and blue skies.
Michael and I agreed to have dinner in Chinatown and from there,
drive to my home. The FedEx
package was kept in a locked safe in my closet, per Michael's instructions. After exchanging the requisite
pleasantries, we enjoyed our dinner. After
more small talk and comparing notes on our respective lives on our
respective resident coasts, the discussion turned serious.
No sooner had we finished our meal, driven to my home and walked in
through my front door, than the talk turned serious. "Sunrise, please go get that
package I mailed you," Michael said.
"I'll be waiting at the dining table for you.
I want to go over the contents with you and the legal ramifications
involved. Copies of what I sent
you are kept in a locked safe in my office."
I had never seen my cousin so serious. I was reduced to a quivering mass
as I opened that package under Michael's falcon-eyed scrutiny.
At first glance, the contents looked harmless enough.
A cheap, green-flowered photo album.
A size-6M shoebox. A
cassette tape. An old movie
reel. A speckled notebook, much like the ones used in classrooms.
A battered, blue-flowered diary. Michael turned to me, all humor
erased from his face. "Yeah,
it's what you think it is, Sunrise Bluebird," he said.
"Look through that album. That
was when you lived in the Haight that first year.
And the diary along with that notebook.
It all belonged to Amber Rain," he said.
"Are you ready to watch this movie?
I had three copies made. You
and I each own a copy. The
third copy is in a safe deposit box in my bank in Rutland.
All of this is yours to claim at any time, Sunrise.
It's a good thing you have an old movie projector.
You 'd make a retro museum out of a palace." I had to laugh.
This was the one person who had always laughed at my tendency to buy
retro items during my many forages to thrift stores.
"Going thrifting," I'd say.
Many is the time a smile would pass over my tendency to "go
thrifting," as this was something Amber Rain and my communal family did
quite often during my first year. The
faded green album showing me in my second-hand finery was testament to that
fact. "Oh, you kidder!" I
said, taking a playful swipe at Michael with the 1964-1967 diary.
In so doing, I accidentally knocked the shoebox off the table,
spilling its contents. An
envelope fell to the floor. In
faded blue felt-tip were scrawled the words, "Golden Gate Park, August
7, 1967," a circle of daisies surrounding the inscription.
I bent down to retrieve the
envelope. Weakened by resting
within the shoebox for more than three decades, it spilled open. Several 3 1/2 x 3 1/2 square photographs showed George
Harrison, sitting cross-legged in Golden Gate Park, his wife Pattie at his
side, looking alternately happy and uncomfortable.
Amber Rain was in several of those photos too. What I was not prepared for was seeing myself
in the shots as well. In all
eight photographs, I was either sitting with George and Pattie or with Amber
Rain, looking smilingly on. My face went ashen.
"You....you....you...knew?"
I managed to drag out. "Yes, Sunrise, I've known
for some years. When you were
brought East in 1967, none of us children were told anything about this.
It is only within the past ten years that I've known, but we were all
under a gag order not to say anything.
When I was named executor of our grandparents’ estate in 1993, I
found out. I wanted to tell you
all along..." I want to tell you, my head is
filled with things to say. I took a series of deep breaths
and straightened some papers on the table.
"I can only imagine what this shock must mean for you,"
Michael said. "It was a
major shock to us as well. Oh,
and don't be surprised, but I've been doing some bloodhounding over the
years and could never track down any of your communal relatives." ...some are dead and some are
living, I somehow managed to laugh.
"Knowing you, I am not surprised, you old bloodhound, you!
When I was at Berkeley, I would go to Haight-Ashbury and try to find
the people who lived there in 1966-67, but had no luck.
How...how...how did you get all this stuff?
I need a drink!" Not
a drinker by nature, I kept a bottle of fine Napa Valley wine on hand for
guests. Now seemed the time to
imbibe. "I'll pour that,"
Michael said, taking it from me. "Right
now you'd flood the place if you tried.
Where are your good wine glasses?
Is that any way to treat a guest?" he said jokingly.
Mutely, I pointed to the cabinet.
"Good.
A drink is in order. Just
sip your wine while we watch this movie.
I had it copied onto a dvd. You
and I each have a copy of that dvd. Your
copy is in that file I handed you. I
wanted you to watch it on the original reel-to-reel so you would know this
was on the level." Going into automatic pilot, I set
up the projector. There was no
use pretending I was composed. It
was obvious that I was not. The
wine needed some more time to kick in. Images filled the back wall, as I
had no screen. Images of the
Summer of Love filled the space. There
was a large crowd of people George Harrison would later describe as
"hideous, spotty little teenagers."
Somebody thrust a guitar into his arms.
George's heart-shaped sunglasses, beaded jewelry and psychedelic
clothing helped him blend into the crowd to a certain extent.
Chameleon, I thought, watching the film.
George, wearing bright colors and a flower button in order to
blend in. There was no mistaking Amber
Rain, sitting cross-legged and not even two feet from where George and
Pattie were sitting. What really
caused me to spill my wine was seeing myself in that film! And with
George! It's easier to look upon
someone else's wealth George made a somewhat
halfhearted effort to strum the guitar he was given (I had read in many
articles covering that impromptu concert on Hippie Hill that the song George
"played" was part of Baby, You're a Rich Man).
I, then not quite a year old, crawled over to where George and Pattie
were sitting. No doubt
attracted by her bright beads, I wrapped one small fist around them and
laughed. Taking my curiosity a
step further, I tugged at George's heart-shaped sunglasses.
George obliged my curiosity by taking them off and putting them on
me. Plainly this was a game to
be enjoyed; I kept at it until George set me on the grass and signalled to
Pattie. The crowd began moving
closer; it was plain from the looks on many faces that the festive mood had
soured. The hippies are a good idea -
love, flowers and that is great - but when you see the other half of it,
it's like anything. I love all
these people, too, those who are honest and trying to find a bit of truth
and to straighten out the untruths. I'm
with them 100%, but when I see the bad side of it, I'm not happy. --- George
Harrison, in an interview reflecting on his San Francisco sojourn Handing me back to Amber Rain,
George and Pattie raced towards a waiting car.
Whoever shot the film caught George stuffing a piece of paper into
the pocket of Amber Rain's flowered dress.
The film rolled for about another minute, ending with a shot of the
Hippie Hill crowd, pursuing the fleeing couple. The speech of flowers excels
the flowers of speech I turned to Michael.
"All this time, you've known," I said. Michael regarded me solemnly.
"Not about the contents of that diary or the envelope," he
said. "The tape of the song and the crowd and the film, yeah.
If you play the tape, you will hear the crowd at Hippie Hill that
day. I don't know who shot the
film or made the tape - I can only surmise that it was any one of the people
you lived with in Haight-Ashbury. These
things were lovingly and carefully packed in a box when you came to Boston.
What they did was a final act of love.
I think they knew even then how valuable this stuff was and felt it
would be safe in Boston with you, its rightful owner." It's all too much for me to
take... The contents of that FedEx
package was indeed worth a fortune, but its loving value far exceeded any
monetary figure. I had actually
watched, had seen Amber Rain moving; talking; laughing and with me.
Still photographs could never have given me this, this sense; this
chance to see Amber Rain, my mother. In
watching the old reel-to-reel footage, I could see the source of many of my
mannerisms. The writing's on the wall... Michael obviously shared my
thoughts. "Yes, I plainly
see you in Amber Rain," he said. "You,
of all people have the right to this information.
In recent years I worked from my end to protect and preserve all of
this material in toto." Never glimpse the truth - then
it's far too late - then they pass away. I knelt to retrieve the stack of
photographs and placed them back into the envelope. In so doing, my fingers brushed a plastic baggie.
Extracting it from the envelope, I saw a small piece of blue paper.
Removing it, I read the message, The more answers you have, the
more questions you'll ask. Never
let your mind go still-George Harrison. It was as if a vacuum had pulled
all the air out of the room. "My
favorite Beatle wrote this?" I felt like California after the BIG ONE -
a series of tectonic shifts and smaller after shocks. Never, never in my wildest imaginings could I have EVER
envisioned such an encounter. Never
could I have thought such a thing was even possible. George and Pattie obviously accepted Amber Rain, me, and our
extended family unconditionally and we did likewise. When you've seen beyond
yourself Michael and I reviewed the
material he had sent me. The
air was thick with expectation. We
trusted one another implicitly; we would never share knowledge of the
contents of that package without consulting one another first.
My other cousins, now freed from the gag order could also be counted
on to keep silent about these treasures.
Michael assured me that his siblings had neither seen the film nor
heard the tape nor read the contents of the diary and notebook.
The tape was merely a cacophony of voices and music, each intertwined
and indistinguishable. Michael's explanation jibed with my lifelong recollections -
that this box of worldly possessions had traveled across country with me in
1967, not to be opened until a minimum of 30 years had passed.
Only the most basic and general answers were given during that long
interim period and no amount of pleading and cajoling on my part granted me
access to that box. Now, after
more than three decades had passed, there was no viable way of locating or
contacting the people I knew during my Haight-Ashbury period of 1966-67; my
grandparents had named Michael as their executor together with the proviso
that he deliver this information and package to me and me alone. *** In thinking it over, I've come to
the conclusion that was probably the best decision all around.
How disruptive to the lives of many people, my favorite Beatle
included, this would be had it come out.
Newshounds would have dogged me; privacy would be sorely compromised.
As distinctive as the name Sunrise Bluebird was, the one thing I didn't
need was to make myself even more so. Michael
was in full accord. During the
week he spent in California, we reached a compromise - we would share this
information with only those whom we trusted most and at no time would we
disclose anything without informing the other. *** When Michael returned to Vermont
on February 9, 2005, we continued as always to keep one another appraised on
milestones and events in each other's lives.
Not a week passed when we failed to e-mail each other or some other
relatives. It was during his
first week back in Vermont that we agreed to inform the Powers That Be at
the Fest For Beatle Fans. In late February, I received an
e-mail from Michael together with a double attachment.
The first attachment was an e-mail he had received from the Fest For
Beatle Fans, requesting our presence as guests to talk about our story.
Careful assurances were made that nothing beyond sharing our story would be
asked of us; at no time would any profits be made from the "Summer of
Love" story. All proceeds,
per our direction would go to the Harrisons' Charity of Choice and every
step would be taken to respect their wishes. Well and good,
I e-mailed back. The clincher
was how the 'Fest kindly offered to cover our travel expenses and recognize
us as guest speakers. As soon
as I had sent Michael that reply, I checked the second attachment.
The second e-mail came from George's sister, Lou, with a request. |
|
Lisa N. Collins has been writing short stories since age 7
and is a lifelong Beatles' fan. She has been a Beatleologist
since age 12. A late talker and early reader, she has been largely
influenced by the Beatles. She has worked in advertising and editing
and is currently a freelancer. She says that the
best thing about writing stories is that like a ventriloquist, one can throw
their voice around and create different characters and personalities. |
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