My Dad and Paul McCartney
Teenage freak out
It was the early 1970s. I was a teenager in high school.
My dad was well into his fifties. (He became my father just as he was about to enter his forties.)
Back then I considered my dad to be really, really, really old. While he put on this persona of being tediously straight-laced, I knew that it was just an act that he put on in order to stay in the good graces of his wife (my mother). She completely ran his life and he did whatever she told him to do. This kind of pissed me off.
But over the years I spent enough alone, one-on-one time with my dad (away from HER) to discover that there was a whole different person behind the mask.
Before I got my own car I used to share a car with my dad. It was, of course, his car. I walked to high school each morning. It was almost two miles. I never walked it during a blizzard or anything because we lived in the desert and we only had blizzards once every 11.8 years. It really wasn’t such a big deal.
The good thing, though, was that I didn’t have to walk home from school. We lived in the suburbs way, way out at the edge of town. My dad worked smack dab in the middle of downtown, which was around fifteen miles away.
