After a shopping trip last week, I sat in the car to look over the bill.

My visits to Walmart usually aren’t very costly, but this bill seemed high. I mentally tallied each item. The blood pressure cuff that I’d thought was $28 turned out to be $45. Must have been placed behind the wrong price tag.

$11.95 for something else. What was that? It was the magazine I’d bought on impulse. The special issue dedicated to Paul McCartney. $11.95 for a magazine?!

I started to return to the store, but laziness kicked in. It was nearly 100º out. The previous blood pressure cuff I’d bought had cost $65, so $45 didn’t sound so bad, and I like Paul McCartney. In fact, I loved Paul McCartney when I was a teen. My fantasies had vacillated between him and George Harrison, the quiet, broody one, but Sir Paul always won my teenage heart in the end.

He was just so…pretty. How can he possibly be turning 75 today?

He and Sean Connery were the stuff that teenage dreams were made of. When Roger Moore passed away a few weeks ago, I took an informal poll of some friends, asking who they thought was the best James Bond. Sean Connery nosed out Pierce Brosnan by a narrow margin, but for me, Mr. Connery was the one and only Bond.

I had the thrill of seeing Sean Connery in person in New York a few years ago. A friend and I had theatre tickets to see Spamalot. Before the show, I went downstairs to the concession stand.

Waiting there was a tall, nicely dressed man with a short woman at his side. They were the only ones on line, so I stood behind her. The attendant was busy unpacking a box and didn’t noticed us at first.

I didn’t recognize the woman, but something looked familiar about the man. Giving him surreptitious sideways glances, I noticed that he had on a peach button-down shirt, with a darker peach-colored sweater tied around his shoulders. He was bald on top, but had a gray fringe of hair. Did I know this man?

The attendant finished his task and came over to wait on us. When he approached the table and looked at the man, his eyes went wide, and he stammered out, “May I help you, sir?”

The tall man asked, “Which way to the gents?”, but he might as well have said, “Bond, James Bond” in that unmistakable Scottish brogue. I was standing behind Sean Connery and his wife.

I’ve never had the pleasure of running into Paul McCartney. I’ve never seen him in concert either. When The Beatles came to Dallas, I was a preteen. I begged my parents to take me to see them but that was a no-go. My father thought The Beatles were the Anti-Christ and predicted, “No one will even know who they are in a year.”

Good thing my father wasn’t a betting man.

With the recent 50th anniversary of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, I’ve seen lots of Beatles articles lately. This one ranks “All 213 Beatles Songs from Worst to Best.”

There are a few songs listed in the article that I’d never heard of and some others that I like but had forgotten. I would argue with some of the writer’s ratings, but musical taste is like every other subjective judgement. It’s all in the eye or, in this case, ear of the beholder.

I’d be hard-pressed to say which are my favorite Beatles songs, but as I update my will and sit through Medicare lectures, I’ve been humming “When I’m 64” a lot lately.

Happy Sixty-Four plus Eleven, Sir Paul! Thanks for all the great tunes.

~~Sally Rose
Author of Amazon Nº. 1 Best Seller Penny Possible
Author of A Million Sticky Kisses
Contributing author to Once Upon An Expat
iamsallyrose.com

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