My sweet MIL took us all to the Pizza Hut tonight. The place was packed, but our server was one of my students (a really nice young woman) so we got our drinks refilled almost as soon as the cups were drained.

Someone had cranked up the jukebox and pushed all the Beatles buttons.

I noticed it first with “Let It Be.” EVERYBODY in the restaurant was mouthing the words, nodding in rhythm, beating time on the table, etc. Old people, young people, churchy-types, punks. . . .

It was like a universal theme. I mean, who DOESN’T know “Let It Be”?

The eight-year-olds back in the game section were singing along. The group of really old dowdy Pentacostal-haired women were singing along. The table of high school kids with mohawks were singing along. The pizza-makers back in the kitchen were singing. The people up by the register waiting for their take-out were singing along.

Most of you are too young to remember when the Beatles first appeared on the charts in the U.S. I was in grade school, but I remember. My parents watched Ed Sullivan, and I remember them wondering who these Beatles were, and why Ed Sullivan would have them on his erreally big shew.

This might have been the first time I knew of something before my parents did. The kids on the playground had been talking about the Beatles and I was intrigued. And when their pictures began to appear all over the place, and my parents began their “long hair, terrible clothes, etc” shpiels, they became even more intriguing.

I started saving my money. Like all the other kids, I had a Dime Kitty. Every time I got a dime, I put it in the Dime Kitty, and the kitty grew more and more complete, and when it was full, I took it to Kresge’s and bought. . . . . a record album. You know, the BIG one.

I bought “Meet The Beatles.” It was the first record I ever bought with my own money.

I brought it home, took it out, placed it on my little red metal record player, the one Santa brought me when I was about five, sat back, and listened. It was the first time anything besides “The Andy Panda Polka” and the like had ever been experienced by that little red record player.

By the time Ed Sullivan introduced The Beatles, I knew all the songs on that album by heart. When the band started to play, I sang right along. My parents honestly did not know what to think about that. I remember how they looked at each other, and at me. Maybe they, too, sensed that they were losing part of me to. . . something.

When I look back at how the Beatles appeared back then, it’s funny to think that the old people considered them long-haired and sloppy. Their hair was tidy, and they wore SUITS, for pete’s sake.

Listening to that album, thoughts were popping up in me that had never popped up before.

I wanted to wear a bra. I wanted to learn to play the guitar. I wanted different hair, and different clothes. My bike looked childish. I lost interest in comic books. Bazooka bubble gum lost its charm.

All I wanted to do was listen to that album, sing along in my head, and wait for the next unfamiliar thought to start.

It was the end of an era for me, and the beginning of another.

Tonight, in the Pizza Hut, several generations listened to the same song, and they all reacted.

As for me. . . . I just listened this time. And watched the free show. Dinner and a show.

And wished I had prettier bras. Where that one came from, I have no idea.

Well, maybe I do but I’m not telling.