Here is a funny story written by Pat Simmons (yes the same girl that joined Pat Kizer on her trip to meet George at Kinfauns that took those beautiful photos of him standing at the door in 1969) about her embarrassing meeting with John, Paul, George and Ringo on an airplane leaving Cleveland Ohio in 1966. I found this story in the No 1 Vol 2 (from 1979) issue of Beatlefan magazine.
The events that took place on a chartered American Airlines plane on August 15, 1966 at the Cleveland (Ohio) Airport really started nearly two years before that when The Beatles were in Cleveland for the first time.
A high school student back then, I was earning fan mag money by babysitting for kids of a friend of my father’s. Both my father and his friend work for American Airlines, the airline that The Beatles always chartered for their American tours. I found out not from my father, but from his friend, Cliff, that they both had not only been in charge of setting up security arrangements for the Beatles at the airport but had also met them on the plane before they left for the next city in ’64!
I was astounded, to say the least. Especially as I was learning this from Dad’s friend – not him. I think I nearly disowned him then. Cliff tried to console me by telling me he’d tried to get The Beatles autographs for me, but was told by one of them their manager wouldn’t let them, because people turn around and sell them for a small fortune! Instead, Ringo gave him a postcard with a picture of The Beatles on it, and Cliff gave that to me. Hearing that Ringo had actually touched this postcard, I immediately wrapped it in cellophane, where it remains to this day.
For two years after that, I bugged Dad to death to please tell me when The Beatles would arrive or leave the next time they came to Cleveland. Maybe it was the pathetic, panic-stricken look that came over me…maybe he was afraid I really would disown him. Whatever, it worked.
By this time, summer of ’66, I was out of high school and going to a business college. I can’t remember when the tour schedule came out…all I remember is hearing about it on the radio one day – being in the car with a bunch of other lunatic friends – and how we rolled down the windows and screamed liked banshees that The Beatles were coming to Cleveland this year (they hadn’t in 1965).
From that day on, I was kept in horrendous suspense as to whether Dad would tell me when the Beatles would arrive or leave at the airport. Then, the Friday before the Sunday when they were due to appear at the Cleveland Stadium, two penciled notes were on the floor under my door when I got up. One of them said, ‘I have some info on your 4 friends if you will be free at 2 p.m. Monday. Let me know. Dad.”
You’ll notice from the half-said things the not contains that my father has a wicked sense of humor and likes to keep his daughter’s sanity at a minimum.
How I ever got through that weekend without going totally out of my mind, I‘ll never know. The concert itself on Sunday (Aug 14) helped a lot!
When the dream is still a dream, it’s amazing how calm you are over the prospect of meeting The Beatles, of holding intelligent conversations with them, of acting –ah-normal. You’ve gotten an idea that they don’t like meeting a fan who stands there and foams at the mouth and says nothing, just ogles. But YOU won’t be like that when you meet them, no sir.
After arriving at the airport Monday, I went to my dad’s office because I wanted to stash my books; After all, you can’t meet the Beatles and be so uncool at the holding SCHOOL books. I had my camera along and this nifty catch all purse, the kind that doesn’t’ close at the top, but I loved it because it held so much swell junk.
Dad took me down to the gate where the chartered plan was waiting. They were loading equipment and food on – everything but The Beatles and the other passengers, which they were sneakily going to board at the end of the runway a couple of miles away from the terminal and their crazy little fans. Dad told me that the plan was the plane would arrive at the end of the runway about 10 minutes before the bus containing the Beatles et al. would arrive from their downtown hotel. The moment the plane stopped, I was to get off. I would be permitted to stand at the end of the ramp and watch them go up the stairs, was that clear? Yes, sir, real clear. Now that it was getting toward the nitty gritty that I actually might see The Beatles up close, I was getting progressively chicken and thought maybe it was a better idea to just ogle instead of trying to say something clever to them. So standing by the ramp was just fine with me.
Dad took me on the plane and planted me toward the back. I busily took pictures through the window of guitar cases being loaded on. When I saw THE drum kit, I really freaked out…guitar cases were one thing, but I knew Ringo’s drums when I saw them, even with heavy canvas over them. When I didn’t have my nose up against the window watching all that action, I was gazing on in shocked wonder at all the cases of booze being loaded on the plane. But then, of course, the Beatles wouldn’t drink that. It was for everyone else. (I was still a naïve kid back then). Cliff, Dad’s friend was on the plane, too, in a panic because the stirrers for the drinks were nowhere to be found. While he was off and running looking for those, I talked to a stewardess who said she’d been to The Beatles party at the Sheraton Hotel the night before. If that had been today, I could have thought of some REAL interesting questions to ask her, but being ignorant of what The Beatles “parties” were really like back then, I believed her when she said George stayed on the phone all night, John got drunk and went to bed early (I bet he did!) and Paul and Ringo were the most talkative and the friendliest.
It never occurred to me how much time had passed since Cliff had run off to find the all-important stirrers. Not even as we began taxing down the runway. The only think on my mind right then was my contact lens, which had just started ripping my eye apart. I forgot all about the Beatles and airports and plans. All I could think of was digging out my contact lens. I found my mirror and began poking and prodding my eye, which was tearing like mad. I finally got it shoved down to where it belonged, but just to make sure, I covered my other eye and looked straight ahead to see if my vision was blurry or clear. Reality of where I really was slammed me right in the face because right there before my tortured, watering eyeball was John Lennon, walking down the aisle of the plane, straight toward me.
I’d like to put into word what my first thoughts were right at that moment but I couldn’t tell you. My mind froze, my intelligent conversation froze, as did my whole body. Paul was right behind him, wearing a blinding yellow jacket – he was the only one I could remember right afterwards what he was wearing until later when I saw the picture I had taken.
You would think your first time seeing them up close would be so clear in your mind, but while it’s going on it’s like a dream – vague, unreal, like you’re going to wake up any minute. Especially when all four of them are just a few feet away from you (plane aisles are not very big).
Sitting there stunned, staring in utter disbelief, if I said anything at all, I’m sure it was just gibberish.
John was the only one who said anything to me, “Ah, you wear contacts, too!?
Brilliant opening, why couldn’t I give him a brilliant answer, like saying “duh, YEAH!” Nope, I just continued to gape. Sensing nothing clever was going ot come out of my mouth, John, followed by the others, continued on to the very rear of the plane on the opposite side of where I was.
John and Ringo were in the very last seats. Paul and George in front of them. I was so petrified by this time I couldn’t even look back there, much less go up and ask something original like “can I have your autograph” or “do you know I have all your records?” But here I was with the golden opportunity to go talk to them (there was nobody in the back them and me) and I was blowing the whole deal.
My feet were not cooperating. A stewardess walked by then, and suddenly my spell broke. I asked if I could take a picture, just one picture, please, huh, can I, I’ll hurry, just one? No, she said, the plane was about to take off and I was to leave immediately. I must’ve looked totally crushed and generally pathetic because right at that moment a voice that was distinctly Paul said, “Oh, let her take a picture. What harm can it do?”
Dear old understanding Paul. “Before anyone could say otherwise, I wizzed around and snapped the shutter. By that time, my main objective was getting off the plane without looking any more like an idiot than I already had. I grabbed my purse, which had been sitting on the seat, but in my rush I grabbed the wrong end.
The contents of my purse, which was a lot, flew all over the floor of the plane. I don’t think I have ever felt so embarrassed in my life. It made such a racket that they would have HAD to heard it and probably looked. All they saw, I’m sure, was a blur of flying arms scrammed all this junk back into a purse that didn’t look like it could hold half of it.
I then proceeded to WAIL off the plane, steam rolling anyone in my path. Fortunately, despite my path of destruction, most everyone was by then sitting down. The only face that really struck home in my gallop out was Brain Epstein’s. I roared out of the plane, down the ramp and up to my father, half scared that he’d be really mad I didn’t get out of the plane right away and already mortified, realizing I’d made a complete ass of myself in front of The Beatles and hadn’t even talked to them once. Yet knowing that if I had to do it all over again, probably the same thing would happen.
But Dad wasn’t angry. With a patient smile on his face, he just asked if I’d see The Beatles. He gleefully told me that I should’ve come with him in the car instead of choosing to ride on the plane. It seems that the plane had been delayed leaving the terminal (the missing stirrers, remember?) and therefore the bus arrived way before the plane. Somebody from American Airlines had to go on the bus and p.r. their way through an explanation of the delay to The Beatles and that someone had been my very own father.
Dad and Cliff drove me back to the terminal. I was clutching a piece of paper, a form, on the back of which John, George, and Ringo had scribbled their names. I’d gotten it from two cops sitting in a squad car near the bus that had brought The Beatles called me over and asked if I’d gotten their autographs. When I said no, they whipped out that piece of paper and gave it to me (they hadn’t gotten to talk to Paul, so they didn’t have his autograph). I kept staring and staring at the signatures, not believing they were real. The form is yellow, now but safe behind a glass frame.
Aug 15 had really happened – to me, not to somebody else that wrote in to “Datebook.” There are times where I can still hardly believe it myself, until I look at that old photo I took. It is blurred (I wonder why), a bit washed out because of so much sunlight streaming in through the windows. Paul’s looking down, George is looking out the window, but that’s the Beatles all right..and you can’t photograph a dream.
