The first day the Pats met George

Here is a story from the first issue of "McCartney Lovers and Friends" fanzine (getting my money's worth out of this one!).  It is a story we all know and love about when George Harrison fan club president, Pat Kinzer met George in 1969.  However there is a twist this time.   Instead of hearing Pat's side of the story (which you can read in her wonderful book), this is her friend, Pat Simmon's memory of the day.    And....it isn't the story of the day where they met George at his door and took all of the photos and had him sign all sorts of things.   Instead it is about when they first met him.   Nice little story.....

The year was 1968, Jul and August to be exact.  About six months prior to this, Pat Kinzer had mumbled on about “wouldn’t it be great to go to England” and I’d mumbled back a dreamy “yeah, sure would.”  So we decided to make the dream become reality, threw our money in the bank, rounded up a few other friends and pen pals, namely Joy Kilbane of Cleveland, Nancy Scharfe of Chicago, and Sandy Meckes of Pennsylvania/Dutch land.   I’m sure those of you who’ve been to England can remember back to when you went for the very first time, and how you got off the plane, looked around, and through that this couldn’t be happening to YOU, because it only happens to those who wrote for “Datebook” or other such gear-fab magazines.  Even when you’re in the bus on the way to the Pan Am terminal somewhere in the sticks outside of London, you keep looking out the window at the cars on the freeway caught in early-morning rush hour, and you keep thinking, “aren’t dreams weird, this HAS to be Cleveland, but everybody keeps driving on the wrong side of the road!”  I remember when we finally got to our hotel, which was around Paddington, a none-too-swift area of London; we had to sit in the lobby for about ten years before our room was ready, and our luggage the five of us took up practically the entire lobby. 

Finally, suffering through the time change, we stumbled our way to the underground and tried to get familiar with how to figure out the different lines, and we succeeded in winding up back at Paddington three times in a row.  Well, what can you except from you first day in London with no sleep and the hour being about 7:30 am?  After getting chased all over the place by the St. John’s Wood police, who seem to get some kind of evil glee out of threatening poor gullible Americans that they’d throw them in jail if they didn’t evacuate the vicinity of Cavendish Avenue, believing them and running off to Piccadilly where you also believed a guy in a record store who said an album cost around five pounds, forgetting that five pounds is not the same as five dollars, going down Carnaby Street in total fascination, visiting the Beatles Monthly offices, and doing hours of souvenir hunting, we returned to our hotel rooms, our feet burning so much we had to crawl around on hands and knees.  But to skep all the rest of the intelligent little happenings that went on the first few days of your fist big vacation without mommy and daddy, we’ll go on to That Day I Never Thought Would Happen, when we first talked to George.

By this time, in early August, we were staying in a hotel in Esher.  Pat, Sandy and I decided to roam around Esher for reasons obvious while Joy and Nancy checked out Weybridge, also for reasons obvious.  We found George’s private drive by asking a girl on a bicycle if she knew where you-know lived, and she very tolerantly led us to the gates beyond which there was a golf course, and somewhere beyond that the long driveway that led up to George’s gates.  I think I was in a state of shock that whole walk up the private road, which was so narrow, it was more like a bicycle path, and all gravel.  You keep thinking, he lives around here somewhere, but no, you’ll never see him, never talk to him, because that just happens to other people, not you.

The walk seemed to take forever.  Just when we thought we’d never find the place, we came across the end of the driveway, looked down in it, and sure enough, there was the famous high wall that surrounded his grounds.  And you thought, naw, this isn’t for real, you’re still dreaming.  Then we were standing in front of his house, the three of us trying to get up the guts to ring the doorbell.  I think it was Sandy who finally did, after considerable shaking.  The feeling I got when that door began to slowly open, but no, it was Margaret, who from gear-fab mags, we all knew, was George’s housekeeper.  Pat, who as most everyone knows, I think, had George’s club for many, many years, and also regularly wrote to 95% of George’s relatives.  George knew of her club because his mother always mentioned it and always got him to sign stuff for contest prizes and so forth.  Anyway, she had sent a registered letter of warning to him a few days before we left for England, saying she was coming over with four people on such and such a date, and would it be all right if we came by for talk on such and such a date, giving the poor man enough notice to evacuate the country.  Margaret said she remembered signing for the letter and that George was aware that we were coming but as it was, he wasn’t home – he was in London.  She said if we came back a little while later that day, he’d probably be back and we could talk to him then.  We talked to her for quite a while, she was so nice, and then in a trance, walked back to beautiful uptown Esher.  Was it really going to happen after all?  Were we really going to get to see him?  After all these years of wishing, hoping, dreaming, planning, was it really going to happen?

Somehow the time managed to go by that day.  How, I couldn’t tell you.  Later on in the afternoon, Pat, Sandy and I stumbled back up Claremont road again.  There was a huge cloud of dust way down the road, and I was beginning to think that perhaps we were in Esher after all, or even in Cleveland, maybe it was Africa!  But it wasn’t a mirage, and as the cause for all the flying gravel came closer, we saw it was a dark green Mini.  Sandy said, “That’s George in that car!”  Pat looked skeptical.  I said, “Naw, couldn’t be!”  The car came closer, and the gravel flew faster.  Pat went white, and said, “It IS George!”  I said, “Naw, couldn’t be.”  The car flew past us, screeched on the brakes, backed up, and the door flew open, and oh God, it WAS George.  The feeling…how can you describe it?  Long before you actually meet him, you keep reading in magazines and things how silly some girls acted, and you KNEW that if it ever happened to you, that YOU would never act that way.  So, our initial, simultaneous reaction, “Duh…it’s him!”  He looked so crammed in that little Mini that he couldn’t sit up straight.  When we later told Joy and Nancy what had happened that day, we tried to tell them what he was wearing and could only remember bright orange trousers and none of us could remember what color of shirt he had on.  He looked at each one of us and said, “One of you….”  Then he pointed to Pat, at which point she completely lost whatever color she had left, which by this time wasn’t much.  He said, “You’re Pat, aren’t you?”  Apparently Margaret had told him we’d been by before and told him what Pat looked like.  He shook her hand, and meanwhile Sandy brilliantly exclaimed, ‘You remember me George, I’m the one who dropped my rheumatism pills all over Paul’s driveway the other day!”  (Note:  Sandy unfortunately had rheumatoid arthritis and had to take pills for it, and when she, Nancy and Joy were waiting by Paul’s a few days before this, George had come out of his house and gotten into a taxi, which was right when Sandy’s pills fell out of her purse and scattered all over the driveway, while George looked on sympathetically and maybe a bit bewildered.)  George looked at Sandy as though to say, “Yeah ok kid, whatever you say…”  He said he’d talk to us, but he was “in bit of a roosh” right now, as he was on his way back to London, but then asked us if we planned to stay in Esher for a few days.  We told him we did, and he said we could come back the next day around 1:00 if we’d like.  While we nodded like robots being fed computerized instructions on what to do next, he zoomed (literally) off again.

If we thought passing just a few hours was hard before, passing a whole 24 hour day had to be next to impossible.  We even resorted to trying a séance, Pennsylvania/Dutch style with Sandy saying, “Make out the lights!” and “whoever is within our presence, make the shoe glow!”  and similar things.  Funniest séance I’d ever been in, but we had to do something to pass the time….

Invited inside Friar Park

This is a story about when one lucky fan was allowed to meet George Harrison inside the gates at Friar Park.   This story appeared in the July 1977 issue of "With a Little help from my Friends" fanzine.  The thing is that this story is confusing.   I think in part because it was written by someone who is not a native English speaker.   But mostly because I think part of the story is missing!   Does anyone have the June 1977 issue of this magazine and could check for me if the beginning of the story is there?  I don't know how Renia got inside of the gates, but from what I infer in this story is that she was invited inside (by maybe George's Dad) and was showing him photos that Pat Simmons had taken of him during the Dark Horse tour.   The fortunate fan (who left with not only George phone number but also a kiss) was Renia Frankowska from Poland.

 

Then I wanted a photo of George and Olivia, and I told them, “and now both of you, please. I know you hate it, but please…”

“That’s all right, “said George. He embraced Olivia, they both smiled and seemed ot be very happy together (lucky Olivia….)

As I said, I took out the photos from George’s tour, and was giving him them, by turns.  He seemed to be very interested in them, as he never saw them before.  Also Harold was looking at them.

George kneeled down now, and when he was watching the photos, I took pictures of him.  Oh, yes, those photos where he kneels down and looks at something – they are these photos!  I was near George all the time, but then I thought, why not move on, approach him a bit more?  So I changed my place and squatted very near him, so near that my arm could feel his shirt and arm.  II don’t have to say how sweet and nice it was for me!  The nearness and the presence of his person made me so very happy!  And while George occupied himself with the photos, I was looking at him. I looked at his hands.  Wonderful.  His hands, with long slender fingers, have always been the object of admiration for me and my friends in Poland.  And I remember them “ordering” me to see his hands carefully, if I meet him. Oh, please don’t laugh, but it’s true – I wanted to see them, close to my eyes.  Thank God I had a very good pretext - George had a very nice ring on his left hand on the last finger.  It was, I think, the same ring he has in the picture you sent me recently from “Hit Parader” magazine.  You can hardly see it in my photos though.

So I took his left hand in mind and said, “Oh, what a beautiful ring!”

“Yeah, it’s from India, eight carrots…”  I hope he didn’t guess what I was really doing – looking for an opportunity to see his hands..suddenly.   George shouted (almost)(  “Look!”  He pointed at someone in the photo, at the aum sign.  It looked so sweet and funny that I had to smile.  “How many people did you have in the group?”  I asked him.

“Oh, I twas also as Indian group – there were about 15 people  ... the group was too big…” he said, lost in thoughts.  And then he said, with big enthusiasm and animation, pointing at Billy.  “It’s Billy Preston!  Do you know – did you hear about Billy Preston?”

“Of course, I did.”

“He’s fantastic on stage!  So full of energy!”  He gestured with his hands how full of energy Billy was.  “But you are full of energy too, aren’t you George?”  I asked, but he said nothing.  And then I said something – well, all the girls think the same, but where did I have so much courage from?  I said, looking at him, “Oh.  You’ve got such long lashes..Some girls don’t have as long lashes as you have…”

And I looked at him, scared of what I said, but George said very quietly, “No…” shaking his head and cast his eyes down and smiled in a special way.

In one of the concert photos he was photographed during his talk with Ravi, and he looked at it and turned ot Harold.  “Look, kids take pictures even at these moments.”

“Kids?  She’s not a kid!”  I said.  “She’s 27!”

“Well, people.”  Said George.

“She has seen you so many times…”

“What’s her name?”  he asked.

“Pat Simmons,” I said. 

“Pat Simmons..yeah,” said George looking as if trying to find the right person in his mind to this name.

“Yes.  She’s also a big fan of you.  She has seen you many times.”

“Yeah?” said George.

In one of the photos, he is standing with the acoustic guitar, so I asked him, “It was during ‘My Sweet Lord’ or what?”

“yeah.”

“You’ve got many guitars, don’t you George?”

“Yes.”

“How much?  Fifty?”

“Nooooo! (he was thinking for a few seconds) about twenty.”

“Oh that’s nice.  You gave one to Mary Hopkin.  When I read it I was not too pleased.”

“Yeah, because she wanted to play a guitar and didn’t have enough money, so I bought a guitar for her.”

“Oh.  You’re so good, George!” I said.  Next I had black and white photos which I gave to him to see.  During that time Olivia had gone (only Harold was still standing near – unfortunately!), but now she appeared again and said something to George, very quiet, point at the door.  So I got up quickly and said “Oh, George, you’ve got to go….”

“No, that’s all right,” said George, stretching out his hand for another photo.  It was so nice of him.  “How many concerts did you do?” I asked.

“About 45.”  I mentioned about his pirate flag, and George looked at it, trying to restrain a smile and said “I don’t know who put it on, looks so stupid…”  During that time Olivia came again and said to George that this man, a manager or somebody important (in show biz) is still waiting – don’t know what she said exactly, so I got up and said, “You’ve got to go, George…”  But he only showed by gesture of his hand that I should squat again, and said, “Not, that’s all right.  You came a long way, waited for so long.”  And I think it was Harold who said, “You are not just anybody else, you are on special privileges.” And smiled.  Oh please don’t think that I’m presumptuous and that was my invention, but he really said that!  I was so surprised and so very happy of course.  Then George said, after Harold, “Yeah!” I told George about my meeting with an Indian man a few days ago and about a letter he advised me to write to him.  I also told him that this man wasn’t too pleasant.  About the letter he said, “Oh, that’s not necessary,” and smiled gently.

“It was Kumar Shankar, you know, Ravi Shankar’s relation,” I said.

“Kumar.  I don’t know what is going on with him.  You shouldn’t care.  He just doesn’t like when somebody disturbs him,” said George.  (When Harold heard about my letter to George, he said, “So you’ll get it tomorrow,” and George just laughed.)

Then I asked George, “Do you still practice yoga and meditate?”

“Yes.”

“Every day?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“As long as I can.”

“Oh, George, thank you very much for all the books about Krishna. Once, you took my letter to Los Angeles and went to Temple and asked to send books for me.  Thank you!”

“Oh, that’s all right.  Were they sent to you?” he asked.

“Yes!  Thank you very much!”  And then I said, “I was receiving letters from many people from Krishna movement – form Holland and West Germany.  They were asking me if I could help them to open the Temple in Poland, but I don’t think it would be possible.”

“They were trying in Moscow too, you know, but no…” George said.

Then I asked him, “Is it hard to meditate?”

“Yes, it’s quite hard.  Some people say it takes years before they could meditate.”

“Does it help for sadness or something like that?”

“Oh yes.  And your energy is going inside, not outside.  You know, everybody shows energy outside and it’s inside.” He said accenting some words.

I said, “I would like to be able to meditate.”

“You should while you are in England.  Look at the yellow part of the telephone book,” he said pointing a finger at me.

“Yes, I will.”  And then George became serious and started to explain something to me, he was translating something.  He was very involved in what he was saying, looking straight into my eyes and was expressing everything by hands, used them a lot, and was talking and talking and talking.  But what was he talking about?  With a big shame, I have to say I don’t really know because during that time I was looking at him and forget about the whole world.  I only remember that I was nodding my head and smiling stupidly, but I wasn’t listening!  George had ot notice this, as he sometimes tried not to smile.   Anyway, I’m sure he was telling me about meditation, yoga and religion, about God and Krishna.  And then, suddenly, somebody called on George from the door.  It was Olivia and she wanted to remind George that this man was still waiting.  So George looked at me with a sweet smile and “I’m sorry” expression in his eyes and on his face, and said that he was very sorry but now he really had to go.  It was almost 45 minutes that we were talking anyway!  So I said, “Oh, George, I’ve got my school for 6 days, all the weekend will be free, so could it be possible to see you just for a few minutes?”

“Yeah all right,” he said.

“As I wouldn’t like to take your time, to disturb you.”

“Yeah Yeah.”

“So maybe I should write and ask if I could meet you, or you could telephone me?  Oh I don’t know where you could telephone, I’ll not be staying at that woman’s, maybe I could just telephone you?”

And you know what he said?!?!

“Yeah, ok!”

“So could you write me your number?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said.  And George took my ball-pen and my memoir book which he signed and wrote his telephone number.  I was so surprised and happy, and I said, “Thank you very much.  I will not give it to anybody.  I promise!”

“Yeah.  All right. Yeah,” he said smiling.  And then he said, “I have to go.  A businessman is waiting for me, you know, I’m making a record,” and started to pick up all the presents I brought for him.

“Oh George, thank you very much indeed.  I’m sorry for disturbing you and taking your time (I tried not to cry, as my voice started breaking down).  George was standing looking at me, and I held out my hand to shake his, and then I made a gesture as if I wanted to kiss him on the cheek, and I wanted to ask him if I could, so I said, “can I? “  But I didn’t have time to finish, as George guessed what I meant, and you know what he did?  He just said, “all right.” And put his hand at the back of my head, at my hair, and kissed me on my right cheek.  Well, it was my chin, very near my mouth and then on my left cheek.  It happened so quickly that I didn’t know what was going on.  I was so shocked and so very happy.  It was so sweet and great and gentle.  So it was George who kissed me rather than I him.  But of course, I kissed both of his cheeks too.  Kissing him, I had to put my face in his beautiful hair.  George smelled sweet of freshness and cleanliness.  Oh my God, it was really wonderful.

I forgot to say that when George was giving me his telephone number, Harold said that when there’s nobody else at home there’s a machine, a sort of tape recorder, so you can leave a message and your telephone number, so George would know who was phoning.  And I said, almost shouted, like a fool, “Oh, it’s like in films!”

You can’t imagine how George burst out laughing!  And he said, pointing at me, “So you have a capitalistic country!”

So,  like I said before, George started to withdraw and I said, “goodbye George.”

“Goodbye.  God bless you.”

Olivia hung out from the door and said, “Goodbye Renata.”

“Goodbye Olivia.  God bless you.”

“God bless you!” she said with a smile.  And George started to go into his home.  I didn’t cry.  I was too happy.  And too shocked to cry, but I could feel how terrible and said it was that it was over.  I took the last photo when he was disappearing but it seems it didn’t turn out.  I looked for a long time at George, at his home with the flying pirate flag at Friar Park all in the brightness of golden sunset.  It was 7:35pm.

And we started, Harold and I, to go back, through the grass, shorting the way.

By that time, I turned my head a few times saying “Goodbye” in my mind; and I was talking with Harold a bit.  Especially we were talking about the girls who wanted to see George and some to Henly to see him.  Harold said that George wouldn’t mind to see and meet all of them but he has not enough time to do it, or he couldn’t do anything else but meet fans and answer letters.  I thanked Harold for such a big help. I really was very grateful!  And we shook hands, said goodbye, and I started to leave this paradise.

I went out through the gate.  It was open, of course.  The last look at Friar Park and I started to go down through a narrow street, near the fire station, called West Street leading to Hart Street.  I still wasn’t crying, I was too happy, too shocked, still having George in front of my eyes.  I think, I even was smiling to myself, and I had to look very happy when I was going back.  I suddenly saw Harold again, along with his son.  They were driving in their Rover car.  They saw me and waved to me form the care and I waved to them.

My dad said that he will be waiting for me upon the Thamas, as it was very warm and sunny.  On the way to the river there is a small church, just near Red Lion Hotel, called I think St. Mary.  I went in to pray, to thank God for all that happened.  And there, I burst into tears.  Then I started to look for my dad.  He was going by the river, opposite me.  And I saw him, I started to run and almost shouted to him, “Dad!   I saw him!”  I saw him!” 

“It can’t be!  Impossible!”  he said.

“It’s true,” I said, and showed him a memoir book which George signed, and photos he signed.  And when my dad saw them, his face brightened up.  He was so moved, started to hug me and kissed my hands and cheeks.  People were looking at us, that crazy pair, but we didn’t care!  My dad took a few photos of me to remember my happy face and we started to go back to our bus stop to get back to London.

And this is how the most happy and the most beautiful day of my life ended.

Meeting the Beatles on a plane

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.

Pat Kinzer meets George in August 1969

Photo by Lynn Berr


Photo by Pat Simmons

Pat Kinzer was the president of the George Harrison Fan Club. You can read all about her stories of meeting George in her book Do you want to know a secret . It is an awesome book!! I have heard Pat speak at Beatlefest in the past and she has some great stories about George to share. One of the times she met George was in August 1969. This was during a time where it was possible to go to Kinfauns (where George and Patti) lived and ring the doorbell and actually have a decent chance of meeting George!

Here is a video of when Pat met George (very cool if you ask me!)
edit: I removed the video at the request of the fan who took this video, Pat Simmons. The film footage was very grainy and does not represent the true film. Thanks to Pat for contacting me about this.









And photographs from that same day. Very cool when you consider that this was right around the time of Abbey Road.