The True Story of Brigitte's Youth

I was 30 years too late. Or really, 47 at a minimum if it was to be enjoyed properly. And it was to be another 25 years or so before before I would have a chance to come anywhere near it. I had been waiting my whole life for this moment. I wasn't sure that it was really happening. So many flashbacks when I heard the news. So much excitement. I waited and waited for confirmation that it was really happening. I screamed with joyous anitipation when the news hit my impatiently waiting ears. I hurriedly texted everyone; well everyone that would understand. I counted down the days. The person who was to accompany me got angry one evening and said they wouldn't attend; I answered wiith a proud confidence that I would still be going, and that I would be quite happy to go on my lonesome. And in hindsight, I don't really recall this person being there at all. One of my life's ambitions was being fulfilled; nothing was going to stop me now! 

She rang me; I couldn't understand a word. I suppose I should have expected that though, from what I had heard about her teenage years at high school. And afterall, it was my friend that had tagged her in the Facebook post announcing it. That alone made me laugh; here she was, 26 years of age, and the majority of the people that would be interested in it wouldn't have had anything like 'tagging' or 'Facebook' when they were her age! But here she was, almost in tears with her excitement. And I had to go with her. Actually, I didn't mind too much; her passion for it had aroused in me a little interest and I was fairly certain I would enjoy it too. But I know that nobody enjoyed it as much as she did when it finally happened for her. Her face said it all; I couldn't tell if she was going to laugh or cry and her energy was so vibrant, touch her and you were in danger of getting an electric shock that's how alive she was! 

We were 15 when we first met. Our school didn't have a compulsory uniform at that stage, one of the many things I had to take in on my first day; and then all of a sudden this girl bounds out of the classroom and over to me.

"Hi! My name's Brigitte!" I looked up to see a slim girl with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a very colourful tie-died tshirt, and light blue flared jeans. Her mouth was still moving, "I like green, and I love the Beatles". I had to blink a few times. But we were fast friends. Even to this day when I travel overseas I bring her back flared pants and brightly coloured tshirts!

As parents, we were very concerned for our daughter. She was only 12 years old and I had already confiscated two folders. They were like school research projects, only nobody had instructed her to create them. The folders were full of any little scrappy bit of information she could find: photos pulled out of magazines, hand-written quotes she had stumbled across, photocopies of pages from books. But with this latest folder she had a school library book, and one that she had obviously saved up for and purchased herself. The first was one labelled "John Lennon", the latter, "The 1960's". We watched over the years as she continued to make these folders on the Beatles, and dress in clothing that people her age dressed in when we were youngsters. When she got her driver's licence she kept searching VW Beetles for sale. That was all very well, except i don't think buying a car that was at least 40 years old would be very profitable or roadsafe for a new driver. Our mistake for naming her after one of the icons of our youth. I even had to hide a few of my records. We tried to break it out of her, worried that she was obsessed. But when I received her txt, I had to laugh. Our funny little girl. All those years of love and passion, I knew this night would be an unforgettable one for her. Her unmistakeable joy was contagious!

Youth pastors notice things in their flock, and we noticed her. At age 14, she won the 'best dressed girl' at our "60's and 70's" night. Yet she seemed to be in her normal attire, with a couple of extra adornments. And whenever we preached about the music from the "Free Love" days of my youth, many eyes glanced her way. We saw the Beatles bag she carried around, though her parents disapproved. It didn't seem to be doing her any harm though; her "interest" just made her a little different and that was ok. As long as she wasn't encouraged into the ways of the youth from that era. And, in all honesty, the music she listens to is a lot tamer than the music that the youth of today are listening to!

My cousin's eldest child was a little odd, but she was happy. Her aunty and I were a bit naughty, encouraging her I suppose. We would give her books and clothing we would find from when we were her age. "Don't tell your father it was from us!" we would say. We would sit and laugh with her granmother as she would say to her grandchild, "My girl, you were just born at the wrong time." We felt her parents were making something out of nothing. A strong interest, not an obsession, is what we called it. And as soon as we saw the Facebook post, we knew she would be first in line!

Yes, at 12 years of age my parents would take my books off me. At 14 years of age the pastors would preach about the "wickedness in the days of their youth with drugs and music and "making love not war" ". At 16 when the other girls wore skinny jeans, all black clothing, with thick side fringes, I had very colourful, loose tshirts and pants that fit snug until they reached your knees and then you couldn't tell if I even had shoes on! And my hair was cut all shaggy yet long. At 18 years of age, I could never sing along with my friends because my music consisted of the Beatles, the Monkees, the Beach Boys, the Hollies; music from my father's record collection and a radio station nobody my age had hearrd of. At 20 I still had cousins greeting me with "Hey hippy, hey gypsy". I often wondered if this was why I never had a boyfriend; until at age 27 he walked into my little house down by the stables where I worked for his father. I saw his eyes glance at the pictures on my walls. Over the next few months, I watched as he would sit in the car, listening to me sing along to music he didn't know. He would browse through my DVD collection and struggle to pick something that wasn't "old". But he loves it about me. Loves that I had the Beatles all over my wall. Loves that I know all the old songs. Loves that I had some good old thriller movies that I could watch (on my own, when he wasn't there because Alfred Hitchcock really isn't his taste). And loves my clothing style. 

As for my proudest possesion hanging above my bed, well, I do think he would much rather have a photo of us hanging there instead of my framed tickets and the newspaper articles on the best night of my life. The night I had been living for. The night I counted down to since the moment it was announced. The night that I got to watch Paul McCartney sing, live, just metres in front of me, touching the same ground I was standing on, to sing along with him in person rather than his voice through a car speaker. The night when I felt as if a yearning in me had finally been satisfied. The night that I felt complete.The night when an important part of the 1960's era reached out through the generations between us and touched my simple little world.