Hello Be-ya-tle fans. Now that the warmer weather has started to arrive on the North American continent, and we’re all looking forward to a nice, mild, sunny, spring, I’ve decided that it’s time to share a story with you about ...

snow.

How much snow are we talking here? Meteorologically speaking, it amounts to:

Mounds and mounds and pounds and pounds of the stuff.

I know what you’re thinking. After February 28 (or February 29, should February decide to take a flying leap), nobody south of the North Pole gets more than a dusting of snow.

Well, Mr. and Ms. Smarty Pants, you’re wrong. Because it so happened that (warning, technical term coming up!) a gigundo amount of snow fell on one particular day in March 1971. I know it for a fact because it all happened on my 10th birthday. I can give you a money back guarantee that the best birthday gift in the universe for any 10-year-old kid isn’t a silly dilly talking gizmo with extra whatchmajinggies or a super duper turbo powered crash banging whatsit with extra gazingers (batteries not included). The best present on Earth consists of those three little words. No, not those words, Valentine’s Day was last month and that’s disgusting anyway when you’re 10 years old. I mean these three little words: "No school today."

Before you get to thinking that I didn’t like school, let me explain. I enjoyed the first couple of years. But in the fourth grade, a dried up old lady with a red beehive hairdon’t and a voice like Darth Vader’s (had Darth Vader been invented in 1971) tried to introduce us to the glorious world of fractions. All that stuff about divvying up an apple pie - who cares? In my book, you just grab a spoon and it’s every kid for herself! The other awful thing about fourth grade? Music class.

Stop stop stop! Don’t go telling everybody that I didn’t like music. I LOVED music. I loved it so much that by the fourth grade, I had already spent four whole years studying piano, plus I just started taking violin and voice lessons, too. But I did all that outside of school. Because inside school, the music teacher was another dried up old beehive head (a brunette, this time) who taught us to sing such endearing numbers as Stodala Pumpa. How Stodala Pumpa was going to make me a kinder, gentler, more informed citizen of the United States of America was beyond me. I didn’t even know what a Stodala Pumpa was. (Author’s note: Sad to say, 30 years later I can still remember all the words to Stodala Pumpa, but the glorious world of fractions remains a mystery.)

But back to my story. Mega-blizzard in March, 1971. I remember watching my father struggle with all his might to push open the storm door. "Must get to work," he snarled in an unconscious imitation of my favorite superhero, Batman. Dad’s face reddened and his feet slipped across the hallway floor. "Must get to the office." He gave one last agonized grunt and managed to open the door about half an inch. I cheered as the cold air drifted into our toasty hallway.

That’s when our own personal five-star general appeared. Patton didn’t hold a candle to Mom. "Take this," she ordered as she shoved a snow shovel into my hands. "Out of my way," she barked at my father. He obeyed without question. In five seconds, Mom removed the storm windows from the door, snatched the shovel out of my hands, and presented it to my father. "Now dig."

Sheepishly, Dad took the shovel and began tunneling through the storm door. The work was slow going, (bad pun alert!) or snow going, as I preferred to think of it. Pretty soon I got very bored. Not a good thing on your tenth birthday. So, I waltzed into the living room and plopped down at the piano.

"What’s that nonsense you’re singing?" my mother demanded from the kitchen.

"Stodala Pumpa!"

"What?"

"Stodala Pumpa! You know, it’s what you’re paying my private school zillions of dollars to teach me!"

Silence from the kitchen and a hearty "Cowabunga" from Dad as he flung himself and the shovel through the top half of our storm door. I didn’t know Dad could do that.

About an hour later, my father returned, along with his brother, my Uncle Edward. Uncle Edward (NEVER Ed or Eddy) came fully equipped with royal blue hip boots, a yellow slicker, and a red ski mask.

"Is that how the mayor is supposed to dress?" I giggled.

Uncle Edward wagged a gloved finger at me.

"Edward is going to walk to the office," my father announced. "I’m going with him."

Mom came out to examine Edward. "You’re going to walk five miles in hip deep snow?" she asked.

"I’ve brought a broom with me," Edward sniffed.

"You’re going to fly in this weather?" my mother innocently asked.

I giggled. Edward’s face contorted under the ski mask.

"You’re crazy," she told my uncle. "And you’re not going," she informed my father.

Dad shrugged, and Uncle Edward tipped his ski mask at us. Then, Mom, Dad, and I stood at the door and watched as Uncle Edward and broom disappeared into the tundra.

"Now what?" my father asked.

"It’s my birthday," I reminded him. "Let’s do something special."

"Good idea," said my father. "Let’s see if we can find something special on TV."

The three of us tromped into the den, and Dad switched on the set.

"How did he do that?" I asked Mom as a football game appeared on screen. "How does he always find a game?"

"Magic," my mother replied.

"Magic?"

"It runs on his side of the family," she explained. "Your Uncle Edward flies on a broom and your Father can always find a game."

"And Aunt Edna’s a witch," I filled in.

Mom glared at me.

"Uncle Edward says so."

Dad nodded. "He does say that."

"Dad, can you turn the channel? I don’t want to watch a game on my birthday."

"Just let me see the score."

"I’ll show you the score," said Mom as she switched the channel to a Public Television station.

"Ma," I yelped, "I don’t want to watch a home remodeling show!"

"Neither do I," Dad agreed.

"Be quiet. You’ll learn something."

"What are we going to learn?" Dad asked.

"We’ll all learn how to turn this den into a garage."

"But it already was a garage," I reminded her.

"You’re the one who wanted to turn it into a den," Dad pointed out.

"That was before we had two cars. Now we have two cars and I want mine in the garage."

"We can’t afford to convert the den back into a garage," Dad argued.

"We can if we do it ourselves instead of hiring a contractor."

"We’ll never learn how to do that," Dad protested. "Especially not from a television show about repairing gutters."

"You’ve got to start somewhere," Mom insisted.

"I know how to do it," I said. "And we don’t need a boring television show to teach us."

"How?" asked Dad.

"Simple. Just drive a big old car up the driveway and smash it right through the picture window. Instant garage."

"From your mouth to God’s ears," my mother prayed.

Guess what? Dad might have been magic, but Mom had connections. Without warning, the picture window exploded with a force that blasted Mom, Dad, and me across the length of the room and into the back wall. The swirling tendrils of snow and glass caused the den to sparkle like some sort of deranged Christmas ornament.

I could hear my mother shrieking in the background, but only half of my brain paid any attention to it. The other half of my brain numbly focused on the vision in front of my eyes. What was that thing?

"Are you okay, are you okay?" Mom shouted to my father.

"I’m fine, I’m not hurt!" he yelled back. "Stop shaking me!"

Mom came up behind me and began to shake my shoulders. "Are you okay?" she screamed.

"Ma?"

More shaking. "What’s wrong? Are you hurt?"

"Ma?"

Frenzied shaking. "Answer me, answer me! Are you okay?"

"Ma? Ma?" I sat up and looked at her. "Ma, is that a Rolls Royce on our carpet?"

My parents jumped.

"There’s people in the car! Get them out, get them out!" Mom yelled. As I started forward, she turned and pointed a finger at me. "Go upstairs and get blankets and our emergency medical kit."

I raced up the steps and grabbed the necessary supplies. By the time I got downstairs again, my parents had already ushered our two "guests" into the living room and seated them on the sofa.

"Hang up their coats," Mom ordered as she took the supplies from me.

"I always hang up the coats," I complained.

Mom gave me the death glare. Batman himself would wither under that gaze.

I took the two coats. The small white one reminded me of an oversized, hairy white egg. It smelled of some exotic perfume. The brown one looked like it came off the back of a wooly mammoth. Worse, the long, wet, heavy coat reeked of cigarettes. "Gross," I complained.

Meanwhile, our two guests, a man and a woman, seemed to be making a recovery. Mom pronounced them "More shaken than hurt," and then she introduced me to them. The man’s name was John, and the wife had a crazy name that sounded something like "Yucko." To tell you the truth, they both looked pretty yucko to me with all that hair. They could have made two fur coats out of that if they wanted to.

"Phone’s dead," Dad announced. "I hope neither of you needs a doctor."

"No, no, we’re fine, really," John said. "Can I help you clean up the mess we made?"

"I’ll get the vacuum," I volunteered.

John smiled, but Mom gave me the death glare again. I felt my insides whither. "Shields at 60 percent and failing," I thought.

"Your father will hang a blanket over the window as a temporary measure," Mom decreed, "And then we’ll shut the door to the den."

I gasped. "Mom, Daddy can’t use a hammer! He’ll hurt himself!"

John put his arm around Yucko’s shoulder. "My wife can hammer a nail in, can’t you luv?"

Yucko giggled.

"Thank you for the offer," said Mom, "but I’ve got a better plan."

She turned to me. "Get the duct tape for your father."

"I’ll get the tape," my father interjected.

"Then I’ll make some hot coffee," Mom said.

That left me alone with John and the Yucko woman.

"How old are you?" Yucko asked.

"I’m ten. Today is my birthday."

"Well, happy birthday to you then," John smiled. "Sorry we didn’t bring you a present. How ‘bout if I give you an autograph?"

I frowned at him. "Whose autograph?"

The wife put her hand over her mouth and giggled. John’s jaw dropped. "Don’t you know who I am?"

I shook my head. "I never met you before."

"Don’t you listen to the radio?" he asked.

"We have cable TV," I said proudly.

"Oh. Well, don’t you listen to records?"

I brightened. "Oh yes, we’ve got lots of records of all the greatest musicians."

"There you go. You must have one of my records in your collection."

I gasped and did a little dance. "Does that mean you play with Dinu Lipatti, or Maurizio Pollini, or Glenn Gould?"

"Sorry?"

"I mean, do you play Bach, Beethoven, or Brahms?"

John laughed. "I play Beatles."

I stopped dancing. "Beatles? Is that an instrument?"

John blinked at me. "It’s a band called Beatles," he explained. "Only we broke up a little while ago."

My brain churned as I tried to figure out what he meant. "Do you or don’t you have a band?"

He hesitated a moment. "I’ve got another band now. It’s called the Plastic Ono Band."

Now it was my turn to hesitate. "What’s plastic about Ono?"

John stared at me. "I’m not sure I understand the question."

I frowned. "Did you have trouble in school?"

John tilted his head and sighed. "This conversation isn’t working, is it?"

I shrugged.

"Any ideas, Mother?"

"You must try an alternative," Yucko suggested.

"Why’re you squinting at me like that?" John asked.

"Is she your Mom?"

"She’s my wife."

"Then who’s your Mother?"

"My Mother?"

"Do you mean my Mother?" I asked.

"Your alternative approach isn’t working," Yucko observed.

"Then why did he bring it up in the first place?" I asked.

"What? What did I bring up?"

"Go play the piano, John," Yucko advised.

"Okay, Mother."

"Don’t do that again," I warned.

"What? Don’t do what?"

"Don’t start with the Mother thing."

John took a deep breath. "Look, you like music, right?"

I nodded.

"Tell you what, then. I’ll play you a song that I just wrote. I’ve never played it for anyone else before, so it will be my birthday present to you."

"Okay," I agreed.

I stood next to the piano as he took a seat on the bench and began to play. "Imagine there’s no Heaven," he sang. One glance at my face and he froze.

"What, what? You’ve got that look again."

"Is it the death glare?" I asked excitedly. "Mom’s got a great death glare."

John peered at me. "No," he said seriously, "I’m afraid it’s more of a scrunchy face look."

"What’s a scrunchy face look?"

"You’re doing it now!" he laughed.

"Wait a minute!" I cried. I tried to freeze the look on my face as I raced to a mirror in the hallway.

"You’re right," I said as I returned.

"Yeah," he nodded. "You look better now. Can I continue playing my song?"

"The song about no Heaven?"

"Yeah, that one."

"I can’t imagine there’s no Heaven," I said.

"Well why not?"

"Because my three turtles are there right now!"

"In turtle Heaven?"

I nodded solemnly.

John rubbed his jaw, but I think he was trying to cover up a smirk. "Look, it’s just a song, okay? Don’t take it so seriously."

I nodded. "Okay. I won’t take the song so seriously, and you won’t slouch."

"What?"

"Don’t slouch when you play."

John quickly adjusted his posture. "Right, right. No slouching at the piano. Here we go, then."

"Imagine there’s no Heaven… What? What? I’m not slouching again."

"My piano teacher says you shouldn’t hold your hands flat when you play."

"Look, I know what I’m doing here."

I shook my head. "My piano teacher is in the national piano teacher’s hall of fame. Are you?"

John rubbed his forehead. "No, no, I can’t claim that honor, can I? All right then. No slouching and no flat hands. Anything else I should know, miss?"

I eyed him suspiciously. "Are you really a musician?"

He eyed me right back. "Are you really a little girl?"

I giggled. "‘Course I am!"

"‘Course you are!" John agreed. "Anything else before we get started?"

"You’re okay for now," I said.

John saluted me. "Alright, off we go. No more interruptions, right?"

"Okay, I promise."

He started singing again. Honest and truly, I tried and tried to behave myself. But then...

"MOMMY, MOMMY, HE SAID THE H WORD!"

"John nearly fell off the piano bench. "Sorry, sorry," he cringed. "Don’t yell, don’t tell your Mother on me."

"BUT YOU SAID THE..."

"Shhh. I won’t do it again, I promise. Look, I’ll change the words. Just for you, I’ll make up special words. Listen."

I pressed my lips together and nodded.

Wiping his brow, John started the song where he left off, just before the dreaded H word.

"No heck below us..."

He held the chord and looked at me. I nodded. He nodded and finished up the song.

"I’m afraid to ask your opinion of the song," he said.

I thought for a moment. "I guess it beats Stodala Pumpa."

John took a deep breath. "You feeling okay?"

I shrugged.

"Tell you what, luv. Why don’t you play something for me and the wife?"

Up until that moment, I had forgotten all about his wife. I turned and looked at her.

"How come she’s got that blanket over her head?" I asked.

"She does that," he smiled. "Can I sit next to you while you play?"

"Yeah, you can turn the pages," I said. "But first you gotta get up ‘cause I need my music."

John obliged me and I got the music out of the bench. Then we sat down together.

"What are you gonna play for us?" he asked.

"The first movement of Sonatina #1 in C major by Muzio Clementi."

"Oh."

"It’s in Sonata Allegro form."

"I wouldn’t have it any other way," he said.

I turned to the page, and John’s eyebrows skyrocketed into his head.

"You’re going to play that?" he asked. "I can barely see the paper beneath all those black notes."

I shrugged and began to lose myself in the piece. Then I stopped abruptly.

"Well?" I asked.

"Well what? Am I slouching again?"

I frowned. "How come you didn’t turn the page?"

"Uh, well, I was so enjoying your playing so much that I forgot all about the page turn."

I squinted at him. "Are you sure you’re a musician?"

"I’m beginning to wonder," he mused. "How ‘bout you, then? You planning on being a musician?"

"Are you crazy?! You can’t make a living being a musician unless you’re Leonard Bernstein."

"Oh I don’t know," John said, "I make a pretty good living at it."

"You do?"

John smiled and nodded.

"Then how come you can’t afford a haircut?"

John blinked at me. "What are you talking about? Long hair is in for us musicians."

I stared right back at John. "Does Vladimir Horowitz know that?"

John laughed. "So what are you gonna do with yourself then?"

"I’m gonna be a famous scientist."

John sighed and flipped the page on my score. "Alright Madam Curie, let’s hear the rest of the audition."

I shrugged and continued playing.

A horrible noise suddenly interrupted my piece. I gasped and turned around. The noise emanated from the blanketed Yucko.

I leaned towards John’s ear. "Is she okay?"

"Course she’s okay."

"Then how come she sounds like a sick goat?"

John choked.

"Are you okay?" I whispered.

"Coffee’s ready," Mom announced as she carried a heavy tray into the room.

"Thank Heaven for that," said John as he took a cup. He frowned at me. "Now what, scrunch face?"

I eyed him. "You said that there wasn’t a Heaven!"

Yucko popped out of the blanket and giggled.

"You’re a tough audience," he said.

Mom glared at me. Shields at 40% and failing.

"Done duct taping," Dad announced from the den. "But I may need a little assistance finishing up."

"I’m coming in to inspect," Mom said as she put the tray down on a coffee table.

I started making my famous coffee milk concoction when I heard Mom scream, "What did you do to yourself?"

John, Yucko, and I all got up and raced to the den. "Don’t make a production out of it," Dad said.

"You made a production out of it," Mom informed him.

"Daddy, did you tape yourself to the car?"

"Just a little bit, hon."

Mom folded her arms in front of her chest. "And you taped yourself to the blanket, the rug, and the remains of the den window, too," Mom observed.

"A little bit," my father agreed sheepishly.

"Daddy, it’s a good thing you didn’t use nails!"

Another shot of the death glare in my direction. Shields at 30%.

"Nobody touch anything!" Mom ordered as she stormed out.

John waited until Mom’s angry footsteps faded away. "Here, let me help you," he offered.

"Mom said don’t touch anything!" I warned.

"We can’t leave him like this," John protested.

"No, no, let Mommy do it."

"Don’t worry, I can handle this," John argued. "Here, let me just try to peel this bit off your.... hmmm.... sticky, isn’t it?"

"Maybe you shouldn’t start there," my father suggested.

"It’s okay, it’s alright, I know what I’m doing."

The blanketed Yucko stepped forward. "No, no, John, you’re doing it wrong. You have to..."

"Yoko, get out of the way," John said annoyed.

"That looks wrong," I said.

"Let’s wait ‘til my wife gets back," said Dad.

"Look, I know what I’m doing. Move, Yoko."

"You know, John, I want very much to move."

"Then just move!"

"Okay, John. But first, you have to take the tape off my blanket."

"Look, I don’t care about the blanket."

"But John, you have to care, you know. The world would be a much better place if everybody cared."

John slapped the side of his head. "Okay, okay. I care about you, I care about the blanket, I care about the world at large, and I care about all the ships at sea. Now get out of the way and let me finish untaping everybody that I care about!"

Yucko smiled adoringly at her husband. "I feel much better, now that I know you care."

John returned her adoring look. "You feel better? That’s good. I feel better, too." His eyes narrowed. "Now MOVE!"

"Okay, John, I will move as soon as you untape my blanket from the car."

"Oh, Yoko, what’s so difficult about it? If the blanket’s stuck, then just step out of it and walk away from here, okay?"

"Okay, John. I will step away from the blanket, if you first untape my hair from the blanket which is also taped to the car."

"And his shirt," I pointed out.

"My shirt?" John asked. "Where’s it taped to my ... oh."

"John, you must really stop," Yucko advised.

"Look, just let me just try to do this..."

"Stop!" shouted Dad. "You’ve taped yourself to me!"

"Where?"

Dad pointed.

John rolled his eyes. "Oh God."

"Mom’s coming," I announced.

"It’s always the women who must save the world," Yucko said.

"You didn’t save anybody," John complained.

Yucko frowned. "Well, I didn’t put tape in my own hair, either."

"What are you talking about?"

My father reached forward with his free hand. "She’s talking about this big piece right here ..."

"Daddy, don’t touch it!"

"Ow!" John yelped as Dad nearly yanked him backward off his feet.

"Mommy, they touched everything!" I shouted.

"Get out of the den," Mom ordered me.

"But Mommy, what are you going to do with the saw?"

"Out!"

"How am I supposed to learn what to do if I ever have to fix something like this?"

"How about if you play us another song while Mummy works?" John suggested.

"I never get to see the good stuff," I complained as I stomped out of the den.

I sat at the piano and started to play. "We’re so sorry, Uncle Albert," I sang.

"Please, please, no more torture, please!" John shouted from the den.

I stopped playing. "Is Mommy hurting you?" I called.

"No, your song is hurting me."

"Songs don’t hurt."

"How come you know the Uncle Albert song but you don’t know any of my songs?"

"I heard it on our cable TV," I answered.

"Well how come you’re singing so loud?"

"I can’t hear myself over Mommy’s saw."

"Oh H, H, H," I heard John say.

By the time I started my fifth rendition of Uncle Albert, John emerged from the den.

"Listen, I wrote better words to the Uncle Albert song," I said proudly.

We’re so sorry, John and Yucko

We’re so sorry that you’re stucko in our den today.

We’re so sorry, John and Yucko

But your Royce Rolls through our window and it’s such a major pane.

Get it, pane, as in window?"

"Cute kid." He patted me on the head. "We’ll phone you."

My jaw dropped. "What happened to your hair?"

"Part of your Mum’s secret rescue technique."

"Remind me not to get rescued," I said.

John nodded. "Tell you what. While we’re waiting for everybody else to get rescued, let’s find something to do away from the piano."

I jumped off the bench. "I’ll show you something cool!" I said.

John smiled. "That sounds promising."

I took his hand and led him to the cellar steps. "I’m going to show you my science project. If I win first prize at school, they’ll let me be in the state science fair."

"You really serious about being a scientist?" he asked.

"Uh huh."

"Sure you don’t want to be the next Liberace?"

"Pretty sure."

When we arrived at the bottom of the stairs, I pointed to the other side of the room. "There’s my project."

"What, three shoe boxes?"

:"Uh huh. Now watch."

I headed over to the boxes and turned on the three lamps over the shoeboxes.

"Red, white and blue bulbs," he observed. "Very patriotic of you."

I giggled.

"Can I take the lid off this box?" he asked.

"Sure."

John grinned like I do when I open a surprise present. Except John didn’t laugh, he shrieked, and then he dropped the box onto the floor.

"Don’t mess up my project!" I wailed.

"I’m sorry to tell you this, Scrunchy, but your project is beyond messed up!" he said.

I reached for the box, and John grabbed my arm.

"No, don’t touch it!" he urged me. "We’ll get your Mum to help."

I wriggled out of his grasp and peeked into the box. "That’s not messed up," I informed him.

"That’s not messed up?" he asked. "What are you talking about? My cat box smells better than that. In fact, my cat box looks better than that, too."

I frowned at him. "It’s not supposed to look pretty."

"Then I’d say your project is an astounding success."

"It’s mold."

"Mold? Does Mum know that you’re playing with mold?"

"Course she does. This is a Mother-approved project. I’m studying the effects of different colored lights on the growth of mold."

"Well, where’s that gonna get you?" he asked.

"To the state science fair," I reminded him. "Then onto college and graduate school and then a fabulous career as a famous scientist who discovers the cure for something or other."

"More power to you, Miss Scrunch, he said. "But I’m ready to go back upstairs to see if your Mum finished rescuing the world."

"Okay."

He reached out, and I took his hand. I followed him back up the steps and into the living room. Looks like Mom’s rescue mission succeeded. She was busy giving a less hairy Yucko instructions on dusting the living room.

I tugged on John’s arm. "She’ll make me set the table, you watch."

"Come set the table," Mom told me. She pointed to John. "And you can vacuum."

John saluted. Mom saluted him back and steered him towards the closet with the vacuum.

"What’s Daddy’s job?"

"Staying out of the way," Mom said.

"Does Mum always run this place like a boot camp?" John asked.

"Mom says that our house must serve as shining example of optimum efficiency."

"Right," John nodded. Then he turned and bowed towards the vacuum. "Care to dance?". He turned on the machine, stuck the vacuum cord in his mouth, and began to tango across the living room.

Yucko and I both laughed and applauded.

John wiggled his eyebrows at us and pulled the cord out of his mouth. "Imagine there’s no dust balls..." he sang.

"It’s so nice to see a man do housework," Yucko observed.

"My Daddy cooked dinner once."

"Just once?" Yucko asked.

"Mommy said she didn’t want to see the fire department here again."

Yucko laughed. "I hope John can do better than that."

"Go on then, get working you two," John urged.

Yucko busied herself with the dusting, and I began stacking plates on the dining room table.

"If you’re all done, dinner is ready," Mom announced.

John waltzed the vacuum back into the closet, and I took care of Yucko’s dust rag. When I returned to the dining room, I discovered a surprise guest seated at the table.

"Uncle Edward, you’re here!"

"Looks like you had a little adventure today," Uncle Edward grinned.

"Did you get to the office?" I asked him.

"I did, but nobody else showed up."

"What did you do?"

"Read some files, then walked back here."

"Does it look like any of the roads are clear?" John asked.

"Not at the moment. But the plows will be out later this evening. This should all be cleaned up by tomorrow morning."

"Any idea where we can spend the night?" John asked.

"You’ll stay with us," Mom answered.

"Bet you get my room," I whispered in his ear.

John grinned. "Where will you sleep? Downstairs with your science project?"

"In your car," I whispered.

"Dinner smells delicious," said Yucko. "What is it?"

Mom removed the lid off the covered dish. "It’s...."

"ALKA SELTZER FISH DISH!" I roared.

John’s fork clattered to the floor.

"Mom, why are you serving that on my birthday?"

"Because I couldn’t get to the store today," Mom said. "So the choice was either fish or hotdogs and baked beans."

"NO BEANS!"

"That’s what I figured," Mom said.

We all stayed quiet as Mom served. Finally, John broke the silence.

"You know, this may sound kind of silly, but the wife and I have no idea where we are. What town are we in, anyway?"

"Ono," said Dad.

"Beg pardon?"

"Ono," my father repeated.

"Oh... no," Yoko said, you must have misunderstood my husband. John doesn’t want to know about my name, he wants to know where we are."

"I’m not sure what you’re saying," said Uncle Edward, "But my brother is trying to tell you that you are now in the town of Ono, Pennsylvania."

"You’ve got to be kidding," said John.

"Oh no," said Uncle Edward. I’m quite serious."

"Uncle Edward never kids," I explained.

"Really?" laughed John. "And I suppose there’s an Oyes, Pennsylvania?" John and Yucko both smiled. But no one else at the table did.

"Oh yes," Dad said. "Right next door."

"Except it’s called Oyez, with a zee," said Edward.

"Really?" John laughed. "Is there a town that’s got my last name as well?"

"Your last name?" asked Uncle Edward. "What is your last name?"

John chuckled. "Lennon."

"John Lennon? I didn’t know it was you under all that hair," Dad said.

"Yes, it’s me. And yes it’s really the wife under all that hair as well."

Dad smiled. "Sorry, John, there is no Lennon, Pennsylvania. But we do have a Liverpool, Pennsylvania."

"You do?" laughed John. "Interesting place, this Pennsylvania." Suddenly, John snapped his fingers and pointed at me. "Hey, now I get it!"

"Get what?"

"Get why you asked me what was so plastic about Ono."

"What is plastic about Ono?"

"Nothing. It’s just my band’s name. I didn’t know your town had the same name as my band."

"You really are a musician?"

"I really am a musician."

"And you really do concerts and everything?"

"And I really do concerts and everything."

I started laughing.

"What’s so funny?"

In my best radio announcer voice, I said: "Tonight, New York’s Metropolitan Opera House proudly presents the Plastic Ono Band. Plastic Ono will perform Ludwig Van Beethoven’s Piano Concerto Number Three, The Emperor. Leonard Bernstein conducting."

Everybody laughed, especially John. "You sure you want to become a scientist?" he asked.

I shrugged.

"Delicious fish," Yucko said. "May I have the recipe?"

"Of course," Mom beamed.

"Did you make me a cake?" I asked Mom.

"She did," said John. "It’s a fish cake!"

"Mom!"

"It’s a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting," Mom answered. This time, John got the death glare. He had no problem deflecting Mom’s fatal beams with a smile.

Oh yes! I thought. Now I know how to defeat the death glare!

As I predicted, John and Yucko slept in my room while I slept on the floor in my parents’ bedroom. It wasn’t too bad, except Daddy had the TV on and I had to fall asleep to the sound of yet another football game.

Uncle Edward was right about the plows. By the time we awoke, the streets were already cleared.

"Please can I have a ride in your Rolls before you go?" I begged.

"We can all have a ride if I can get it to move," John said. "The front’s a bit dented."

"Please can I sit up front?"

Much to my delight, I got to sit next to John while the other three adults piled into the back seat.

As we headed down the block, Yucko gave a little shout. "John, look at that sign!"

"Thank you for visiting Ono," John read. "Okay, everybody out. Picture time."

We all laughed as we took turns posing for pictures. And just for fun, we drove down the street and took more pictures in front of the "Welcome to Oyez" sign.

After we drove around the block, John and Yucko returned us to our home. "Oh, one thing before I go," John said. "I want to pay for the damages to your den."

"You mean our garage," Mom said.

"Den," Dad corrected her.

"We need a garage."

"We need a den."

"Well, flip a coin or something," John said as he presented Dad with a check.

Dad’s eyes bulged. "Oh no, John. This is too much."

John winked at me. "Happy Birthday, once again."

"Happy Birthday," Yoko agreed. "And thank you."

"Thank you," said Dad.

"Goodbye, goodbye. Look for my great science discoveries in the newspaper!"

John suddenly knelt down in front of me and grasped my shoulders. "Just be sure, just be absolutely sure that your heart’s in whatever job you pick."

I hugged him tightly. "I think I could get used to your Imagine song," I whispered.

"Atta girl."

"Let me see that check," Mom said after the Lennons drove off.

The next month, we sent the Lennons a picture of our new garage, and a picture of the new, second story den atop the new garage.

Although the Lennons never dropped by Ono again, they did keep in touch with us. Every Christmas, we exchanged cards and photos. And of course, every March, they remembered my birthday.

When I turned 17, I wrote to the Lennons to let them know that I would be attending college in their neighborhood. "I’m going to Columbia University, I wrote. "I hear they have a great music program. Do you think I could earn a living as a music critic?"

About a week later, I received a white postcard with the words "Listen to this postcard" emblazoned across the front. On the back, John had written:

Dear Scrunchy Face,

A music critic - oh no - Imagine that! No musician would dare slouch in your presence! Can’t wait to see you in New York. Feel free to crash our place any time - but please use the front door. (I don’t think music critics earn enough to replace an entire New York City apartment building.)

Love and kisses, John, Yoko, and baby Sean

P.S. Just so you feel at home here, Yoko’s gone to the store to get us some duct tape.

Lisha Goldberg is a Technical Writer/Website Developer for a Massachusetts-based insurance company. She also writes a newsletter for a Boston piano studio. Lisha has won several prizes for her writing, including the Boston Herald Star Trek Competition (write a eulogy for Captain Kirk!), CompuServe's Beatle Essay Contest, and Writers Digest Magazine Award for best Inspirational Short Story.