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It was 1964. A gang of crazy young men from Liverpool, England had taken all the girls in the world hostage and no one had been able to do anything about it yet. They were called The Beatles. I had seen them on TV once or twice, on the Ed Sullivan show, and honestly I couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. You could never hear what they sang, everyone was too busy screaming “I love you Paul”. Of course, I was only eight years old. My heroes were Matt Mason, GI-Joe, and Santa Claus.
My older sister, Cathy, was ten years old, going on eleven. Cathy thought the Beatles were the best invention since thick bangs and cake liner makeup.
We were living on Waterloo Street in London, Ontario. There was a big red house next to ours – we called it the Big Red House. Next door to that was a grey House. Guess what we called that. The driveway for the Grey House went all the way through to Princess Avenue. I think it had been a street once. About halfway up this old street that wasn't a street anymore was a little white house with a large porch.
One day we noticed an older boy sitting on the porch, strumming an old acoustic guitar that looked like it had seen its day. I recognized the type of guitar because my uncle had one. It was what they called a super jumbo. The boy introduced himself as John. He looked to be about 13 or 14 years old. He was tall and lanky with long shiny black hair tied in a ponytail. John was a Native American. We called them Indians back then because that's what our parents called them and everyone knows that parents were always right back in those days.
“What cha doing with that guitar, John?” I asked.
“Hey hey little man. I'm just trying to get my grandfather's guitar to work. I'd like to play a few songs on it if I can get it tuned just right.” John replied.
Cathy said, “Do you know any songs by the Beatles?”
“Well you know, little lady, I do know a few of their songs.” John winked at Cathy. Then John started to play All My Loving and when John started to sing, you would swear the Beatles had come to our London. Cathy was in love instantly.
John ended the song with a little flourish of strumming and we both applauded.
“How was that, little lady?” John smiled at Cathy.
“That was fabulous, John.” Cathy giggled. “Can you play another one?”
John did a little bo diddley guitar solo and then launched into a cross between Roll Over Beethoven and I Saw Her Standing There. Then, he played I Want To Hold Your Hand. Every time he did the chorus, he extended his hand in Cathy's direction but every time she reached out to take it, John would smile and withdraw his hand.
Cathy didn't seem to mind his teasing. It was obvious that she really liked John. So did I. John was nice to me in an older brother kind of way. He showed me how to double knot my laces so they wouldn't come undone when I was playing. He showed me how to tip my cap to the side so I would “look more hip”. And most importantly, John would take time to talk to me about whatever I wanted to talk about. He always seemed interested in what I was saying and he could make me feel older. Ten, maybe.
Cathy and I spent many afternoons hanging out at John's place. John always stayed on the porch. We always sat on the lawn. Sometimes John would look at me and smile and say, “Hey little man, when you going to invite me home for supper. You know I really like beans and wieners.”
My dad had rigged up a loudspeaker on our balcony so he could let us know when it was time to come home and eat. We would always be out playing something or other in the neighbourhood and he would come on and say “Bernie, Cathy. It's time for supper.” And of course we would know it was time to come home. One time in particular, my younger brother asked if he could do it. So, we're out there, with our friends, and suddenly there's this loud kid's voice shouting to the whole darn city, “Bernie....Cathy....it's time for supper....we got paid today so we're having beans and wieners.”
We'd all laugh. It had been a bit embarrassing when it happened, but now it was just funny. Whenever I noticed Cathy was getting bored from all the talking, I'd say, “C'mon, John, play us a song.”
John would laugh, grab his super jumbo and play what seemed to be the only 3 songs he knew. Cathy and I wished we could spend all summer at John's place, on our backs, on the grass, gazing up at the clouds and listening to John sing.
One day we went to John's house and John wasn't there. The next day he wasn't there. The next day, still no John. In fact, we never saw John again. We thought maybe his family had moved away, but then I never remembered John talking about his family. I didn't remember seeing any brothers or sisters, or his parents. There was no dog in the yard. John's parents never called him in for supper.
The kids in the neighbourhood said that no one had lived in that house for a long time, and often they had wondered why we kept going over there. When I heard that, I looked at Cathy and Cathy looked at me and then we both looked over at the porch where John used to sit. The porch that John never left.
We went home and told our parents about this. Mom said, “Oh you must mean that little orphan kid. He used to live with his grandfather, but the old fellow passed away about a year ago. They put young John in a foster home, but he kept running away. Maybe you saw him one of those times.”
I looked at Cathy and Cathy looked at me. I said, “I think I like that story better.”
Cathy squeezed my hand. “Do you think he'll ever come back?”
I didn't think he would but I lied and said, “Of course he will, Cathy. And when he does we'll invite him home for beans and wieners and make sure he brings his guitar.”
But, John never came back.
