Suburban Chicago, January 1965. We have friends visiting from Indiana, and their daughter and I play in the Rec Room. She's got Barbie, and the Skipper doll is at my feet. One of our neighbors—Mikey's owner—made animal figurines, and he gave us the deer that's standing between Skipper's box and Barbie's wardrobe.
Memory triggers leap from this photo. I first focus on the tchotchkes in the bookshelf's center panel. On the top shelf, at the left, stands a wooden statuette of a woman, dressed in white, holding a baby. There's an inscription at its base, "Lady Doctor." A patient carved it for my Mom. The White-brand sewing machine stands at the window so that the seamstress can have a nice view out of the window. My play table is tucked under the formica counter because we are entertaining guests. I am again wearing tights. And moccasins. Even the wall-to-wall carpet looks bright gold (less its grape-juice stain) in a black-and-white photo.
And the title of this post tells you it's really about the Beatles.
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