Re: Today is December 8

On Dec 9, 3:44 am, palejewel...@xxxxxxxxx wrote:
On Dec 8, 8:58 am, Olompali <olompa...@xxxxxxxxxxx> wrote:

December 8, 2007

I miss you, John. 27 years later, I still wish I could turn back the
clock to the Summer of 1980. I remember everything - sharing our
morning coffee, walking in the park together on a beautiful day, and
seeing your hand stretched to mine - holding it, reassuring me that I
shouldn't worry about anything because our life was good.

I had no idea that life was about to teach me the toughest lesson of
all. I learned the intense pain of losing a loved one suddenly,
without warning, and without having the time for a final hug and the
chance to say, "I love you," for the last time. The pain and shock of
that sudden loss is with me every moment of every day. When I touched
John's side of our bed on the night of December 8th, 1980, I realized
that it was still warm. That moment has haunted me for the past 27
years - and will stay with me forever.

I generally make it a point not to get maudlin on anyone's death day
anniversary. I don't see the point since we're all going to die
anyway and from what I've seen, having a long life doesn't make that
any easier, really. Nor would "World Peace" really help that in the
end as far as I can see-- it'll just make the process slightly more
humane. It's still traumatic and experiencing it once is quite enough
no matter what the cause.

But then I read this in the archives - a very old article apparently
written around 1990. It'll be a repost for many of you, but it was new
to me:

The Day the Music Died

On the 10th anniversary of his murder, John Lennon's family and
friends remember his death -- and life
December 10, 1990 -- On Dec. 8, 1980, Mark David Chapman, a deranged
former security guard, shot and killed ex-Beatle John Lennon --
musician, social gadfly, pop icon, cosmic comedian -- as he walked
into the Dakota, the New York City apartment building where he lived.
A decade after his death at 40, in new and exclusive interviews,
Lennon's widow, Yoko Ono, their only child, Sean, plus close friends
of the musician and people who played a part in that fateful day,
recall Lennon's tragic murder and the enduring power of his music and
mystique.

Sean Lennon, 15, John and Yoko's only child, was 5 when his father
was killed. He now attends an exclusive private school in Europe. I
guess my favorite memories are of having a father. I have a whole
five years of memories. I remember when Alice the cat died and my
father was crying; I remember watching TV with him; wrestling and
jumping up and down with him in my room; going to Central Park and
riding in the horse carriage together. We did a lot of drawing. He
would scribble in circles and squiggles on a piece of paper, and I
would have to turn it into whatever I saw in them. We took turns
doing it to see who could make more things out of the squiggles. That
was a game I loved to play. With him, every day was an adventure. It
was like my dad and I were buddies, and there was no real sorrow
then.

Yoko Ono, 57, singer and performance artist who became Mrs. John
Lennon in 1969, now lives part-time in Europe and concentrates on her
artwork. John once said, ''They say that the gods are jealous of
lovers and would try to split them. But they couldn't do that to us,
we wouldn't let them.'' When we were walking outside, we always held
hands as if we were afraid of being separated. If we were separated
by a lamppost, he would quickly say ''bread and butter'' and make me
say it too. John explained that it was an ''old English thing.'' At
one point in our marriage, I was convinced that the world was
probably right, that we shouldn't be together. I had tried to push
John away from me, and we had lived apart for a while. John kept
saying, ''This is crazy, we mustn't be apart. We're wasting our lives
being apart.'' So we came back. And then we became a family. I think
that's the happiest memory I have -- when Sean was growing and we
were together as a family.

It's still hard to accept John's death. I don't think that will ever
stop for me. And it's not easy for me to think about that day. It was
Monday, an ordinary, busy day. I woke up to find John listening to
the rough mix of my song ''Walking on Thin Ice.'' We had a session
with (Rolling Stone photographer) Annie Leibovitz and a radio
interview, which became the last interview of John Lennon. The radio
interview took more time than we thought it would, and we were late
for our reserved time at the recording studio. After doing a few
things at the office, we rushed out of the Dakota building to get in
the car. I saw a man asking John for an autograph. Later, I learned
that John had given his last autograph to the man who would kill him
later that day.

David Geffen, 47, music-biz mogul and close friend of John and
Yoko's, was at the studio the afternoon of Lennon's final recording
session. John's spirits were high at the studio. He thought ''Walking
on Thin Ice'' would be the record that would push Yoko over the top.
He was also anxious for Double Fantasy (the LP released the previous
month) to go to No. 1 in England. The / sad thing was, as soon as he
died, the album did go to No. 1.

Yoko Ono: In the car on our way home, I suggested that we go to a
restaurant and have dinner first. John thought about it and
said, ''Let's go home. I want to be with Sean.''

Paul Goresh, 31, a longtime Beatles fan, was waiting at the Dakota to
meet and photograph Lennon if he appeared. I got there about 12
o'clock, and (Mark David) Chapman was there. He was standing right in
the middle of the archway, holding a copy of Double Fantasy like a
billboard. At about 5 P.M. it was almost dark, and the Christmas
lights started to come on on 72nd Street. John and Yoko came out with
a bunch of people. John saw me and said, ''Paul, have you been here
long?'' As we were talking, Chapman came up. He leaned forward and
held the album out. John just looked at him and said, ''You want that
signed?'' Chapman nodded. Later, Chapman went to a little ledge and
slid the album onto it and said to Jose the doorman, ''Do me a favor
and remember where I put that, because you'll want to know.'' When I
was getting ready to leave at about 8 P.M., Chapman said, ''I
wouldn't leave if I were you. You never know, something may happen,
and you'll never see him again.'' I said, ''What are you talking
about?'' And he caught himself, and he said, ''Well, you never know,
he may go to Spain or something, and you'll never see him again.''

William Joseph Gamble, 44, now a New York City detective, was one of
the officers who responded to the call for backup help after the
shooting at 10:50 P.M. When I pulled up at the Dakota, they had the
fellow, Chapman, in handcuffs, and the other police were looking for
the weapon, which had been kicked down a grating. My first concern
was Lennon. He had been shot in the chest, had lost so much blood
that he was unrecognizable. He was still pumping blood, and I decided
to use the radio car to get him to the hospital. Three of us carried
him to the car and laid him across the backseat. On the way, my
partner, Jim Moran, said to me, ''Who is this? Is it really John
Lennon?'' Before I answered, Lennon muttered something, but we
couldn't understand him. He might have answered yes, or he might have
said, ''I need help.'' It was the last sound he ever made.

Dr. Richard Marks, 49, was the emergency room surgeon at Roosevelt
Hospital who operated on Lennon. When they brought him into
the ''crash room,'' he had a heartbeat but no blood pressure, one
step from being dead. We did an open-heart massage. We gave him
massive infusions to obtain a blood pressure. The major blood vessels
in his chest had been shot, and he had bled through them. He had
fatal wounds, and really nothing could be done. He never regained
consciousness. When I realized that he wasn't going to make it, I
just sewed him back up. I felt helpless. My most vivid memory is how
small and waiflike he looked. He was such a giant. How the mighty
fall.

Sometimes when I walk through Strawberry Fields (the Lennon memorial
in Central Park), I think, ''Imagine if I had been in a situation
where I could have done something. Imagine if the wounds were in a
different place. Imagine if only he had been savable.''

Dr. Stephen Lynn, 43, director of emergency medicine at Roosevelt
Hospital, broke the news to Yoko that her husband had died. When we
realized that we were not going to be able to restore life, it was
very difficult to tell Yoko Ono that her husband had died. She said
something like, ''It can't possibly be true. You're not telling me
that he's dead.'' She dealt with death as most people do -- unwilling
to accept it. Afterward, we had to do little things like make sure
the sheets that he had been cared for on were secured and would not
fall into the wrong hands. Many of the staff that were leaving the
hospital that night were asked by fans to sell their uniforms with
the blood of John Lennon.

Yoko Ono: The doctor came and handed me things. I still didn't
believe it. Then the doctor handed me John's wedding ring, and I
knew.

It was important that I give my permission to the hospital to
announce John's death. But I couldn't bring myself to say yes right
away. For that split second, I felt as though John would still be
alive if his death was not announced.

David Geffen: When we got home, Yoko asked me to call Aunt Mimi (the
singer's aunt), Julian (his son by first wife Cynthia Powell and who
is now living in L.A. and working on his fourth LP) and the other
Beatles. They were calls I didn't want to make. I reached Julian's
mother and I couldn't reach Paul. It was a crazy time. Yoko was
hysterical. We had to hire a security guard because there were so
many threatening letters. The truth is people are racist, and they
never liked the idea that John was married to a Japanese.

Sean Lennon: It was in the afternoon (the next day). My nanny had
told me that my mother wanted me to come to her room. She was sitting
alone on the bed. She didn't look too happy. I looked around and
said, ''Where's Dad?'' I didn't know, but I knew. It was really
weird. I knew he wasn't there anymore. She said, ''Sean, your
father's dead.'' I said immediately, ''Well, if he's dead, he's
dead.'' I repeated it. And Mom said, ''I'm glad you feel that way.''

I went to my bedroom, closed the door, and I cried. I didn't want my
mom to see me crying. Even though I was 5, I understood what death
meant. Then I wrote a poem about my dad: ''My daddy's dead, so I have
read -- I wrote it in my book.'' The poem and me crying is what I
remember most.

My life from 5 to 6 was crazy. I went into a reverse metamorphosis.
Instead of growing and turning into something better, I sort of
crawled into myself. There were all sorts of people trying to take
advantage of us. People spreading rumors. Some people were against my
mother. We got weird letters. Psychotic people were sitting outside
our door thinking they were reincarnates of my father. There were
bodyguards everywhere. I don't know how I got through it. I guess
what I did was just let time pass. I let out the anger by punching
pillows and the wall. My mom helped me. We just leaned on each other
in the midst of the chaos and the nightmare.

Tom Middlebrook is Mark David Chapman's parole officer at Attica
Correctional Facility. Chapman received 20 years to life for
murdering Lennon and is first eligible for parole in December 2000. I
think it is possible that Mark Chapman will not get out until he is a
very old, gray-haired man. He could be here until he dies.

Peter Boyle, 57, the actor (Joe, Young Frankenstein), was a close
friend of John's who met him in a Los Angeles club in 1974. I think
about John a lot. What I miss most is his sense of humor. He had this
spontaneous rock poetry that just poured out of him. He had a way of
bending words and making connections and creating images. I remember
walking down Madison Avenue and running into him. He had little Sean
with him. He said, ''I would like you to meet my guru.'' He always
called Sean his guru. He just loved walking around New York. He loved
the very thing that made him vulnerable. He did not want to live as
most rock stars and movie stars do, behind a wall of bodyguards. He
stood out so much in people's minds that people, especially
unbalanced ones, thought they were him. It's sympathetic magic. You
kill your idol and you become him.

Sean Lennon: I remember my father used to come into my bedroom before
I would go to sleep, usually after The Muppet Show. I had this little
mobile of plastic planes over my head, and the ceiling was painted
like the sky. Dad would turn the lights off and on to let them blink
with every syllable when he said, ''Good night, Sean.'' I think
of ''my dad'' and ''John Lennon'' as two different entities. My dad
is who I remember playing with as a child. I remember his voice, his
touch, his smell. John Lennon is an idealized imaginary figure who
was created around the music and who happened to be my dad.

When my friends talk about their dads in the present tense, I feel a
bit hurt inside. But then again there are so many kids like me whose
fathers and mothers have died. I wish I did grow up in a normal
family circumstance. But what I've been through may have made me a
stronger person. I hope it did. Because otherwise I didn't really get
anything out of the sorrow.

Yoko Ono: What I miss most about John is his incredible tenderness
and his belief in me. Love can sometimes be hell. You could abuse
each other in the name of love. But the thing that worked in our
relationship was that we never lost respect for each other and always
made sure to express it. We loved each other like there was no
tomorrow. When you think of it now, there was something so intense
about it, as if we knew we didn't have much time.

In the beginning Sean kept saying that he wanted to learn magic from
the magician who had performed some tricks at his birthday party. I
asked him why, and he said he would like to be a great magician so he
could bring his daddy back. Sean reminds me more and more of his
father: his body structure, his expressions and the kinds of things
he says. Recently in New York, we were going to a photo session, and
I was wearing this designer jacket. He said, ''Mommy, you're not
going to wear that, are you? You're not a middle-class housewife, you
know.'' It's the kind of thing John would have thought. We went to
this basement secondhand clothes shop, and he found a funny, tired-
looking coat and said, ''This is what you should wear.''

Harry Nilsson, 49, singer-songwriter, was Lennon's 1970s drinking
buddy. He was at Lennon's side during the ex-Beatle's ''lost
weekend,'' an 18-month period of booze, drugs and separation from
Yoko. John was a chameleon. He could be anybody he wanted to be. He
could walk down the street and become invisible and not be John
Lennon. When he wanted to turn it on and be John Lennon, he was
acerbic, sharp-witted. He had a lot of Stan Laurel in him, and a lot
of Groucho Marx.

Klaus Voorman, 52, is a musician who met Lennon in the early '60s in
Hamburg and remained a close friend. I came to New York when Sean was
born, and we would all go for walks in the park. He was happy and
relaxed and showing me how to cook rice and bake bread. It was really
lovely. I was so happy to see him that way because often he was so
uptight and frustrated and vulnerable.

Bob Gruen, 45, is a rock-and-roll photographer who became friends
with the Lennons in 1972. John could have done anything he wanted to
do and have anyone he wanted to have; that was one of his problems.
Because he had such a choice, it was hard trying to figure out what
he wanted to do. I don't think John realized when he was alive how
phenomenally popular he seemed to be. How much he meant to people. He
was trying to sell records. He was trying to get on the charts. He
didn't know that everybody loved him.

Peter Boyle: I remember once, we stopped to buy a paper, and John
found out the newsstand guy was from Liverpool. They had this great
conversation. It was funny to see the real John. He was a working-
class hero. He was a channel for the whole world. These are times
without much conviction, and he had a lot. I don't know how he would
have fitted in today.

Harry Nilsson: I think John's music is destined to live on, like
Mozart's. When he was alive, people waited with anticipation to see
which way he was going to jump and they would follow. There are a lot
of people who have the courage of other people's convictions. In his
case, he had convictions and a lot of power.

Yoko Ono: On the world level, I feel a lot of things that happened
toward the end of the '80s had John's fingerprints on them, so to
speak. I feel that John's songs and statements have affected many
people throughout the '80s, when the important changes have happened.
And I feel that John is still looking after us in many ways. If he
could see what I am going through, he would probably know that I was
doing my best. He was a person who went through a lot of hardship
himself.

Sean Lennon: Musically, my father was the voice of the people.
Whether he was killed for his beliefs, we don't know. Nobody knows.
Maybe some people were scared of the influence he had over people.
Then again, maybe it was just some psycho who just felt like getting
on the cover of a newspaper by changing the course of history.

His death was so shocking. I think it was the end of the first part
of my life. But the memories do not grow fainter. It's as if when Dad
died, everything before his death, those five years, were engraved
into my mind. I will never forget those days. They are the days I
will hold on to.

-- VICKI SHEFF
Copyright (c) 2000 Time Inc.

The remarks by Sean are very touching. I also particularly like
Nilsson's remarks.

The comments by the doctors are hard to take.
.