Sympathy for the Devil

My father retired in 1985 to a life of watching TV. He became strictly hands-off in old age. Much like Chauncey Gardiner, his day-to-day world consisted of a remote control, an uncomfortable blue sofa, and the relentless perkiness of cable television. He wasn't always like this but physical, mental, and perhaps emotional disabilities withered his will for movement, took away his industry, sucked dry his curiosity of things beyond his house. So if you wanted to socialize with him, it was on these terms.

And I accepted it. Whenever I was in Michigan, I would sit in the chair next to his as we watched Walker Texas Ranger, Wheel of Fortune, Regis and Kathy Lee, and any other easy-to-digest offering the ether brought to us. Our conversations were of necessity desultory. Never one for deep discussions or lengthy reminiscences, he rarely talked about important issues or things that had happened to him. During his later years, our father-son conversations were usually just simple reflections on the exploits of some TV character.

One day while we sat there, something about the Rolling Stones blared out from his Zenith. I don't even recall what it was but it caused him to say something totally unexpected.

"Did I ever tell you I once met the Rolling Stones?"

Needless to say, hearing this from a man who thought music began and ended with Sousa marches took me quite by surprise. "I'm sorry, Dad, but I think something's wrong with my hearing. I thought I just heard you say you once met the Rolling Stones."

"Well, I did meet the Rolling Stones. When I was in Luxembourg."

"Yeah, right, you met the Rolling Stones when you were in Luxembourg," I thought. I tried not to let the skepticism creep into my voice, "I find that a little hard to believe."

He sighed the sigh of an exasperated parent. "In 1963 and '64 when I spent those 8 months in Luxembourg putting in that wire mill, I stayed in a small hotel with a pub. For a few nights, these young guys would come in to get something to eat and drink. Since we were about the only people there who spoke English, we naturally came together. They were so young. I felt sorry for them. I talked to them... they talked to me... we had a good time. They said they were a band from England called the "Rolling Stones". Because they were young and just starting out, no one would give them recording time in any British studio. So they were in Luxembourg trying to record their music where they could get studio time. They were all very nice. They even gave me an album that they autographed."

"Do you still have the album?"

"No... I had never heard of them so when I got back I gave it to the neighbor girl down the street."

I didn't know what to think. I still don't. Had my father actually met the Rolling Stones? He seemed positive although the whole story sounded so incredible. Maybe he was pulling my leg or had them confused with another band. I mean, come on, Dad, the Rolling Stones!!! Couldn't you come up with a story a little less far-fetched? But on cold, rainy nights I like to think of my father - young, still industrious, unafraid of the world - sitting in a Luxembourg pub sharing a pint and a laugh with Mick and Keith and the rest of the Rolling Stones just like he said.

Long before the rest of the world knew what a Rolling Stone was.
K-