'Raising a Beatle Baby'

Former Daily News City Editor Jere Hester lives in Brooklyn with his wife, Theresa Wozunk, and their daughter, Ella. But in some ways, they’re a family of seven. “Raising a Beatle Baby: How John, Paul, George and Ringo Helped us Come Together as a Family” traces an often humorous and occasionally touching magical mystery tour that’s included trips to Hamburg, London and Liverpool — and Ella’s meeting with Paul McCartney. In this excerpt, set amid the sad weeks after the 9/11 terror attacks, then 4-year-old Ella tries to seek answers and comfort in music.

About five weeks after the attacks, I spent my first full daddy-daughter day with Ella, who had picked up an odd habit of clinging to scraps of paper and other detritus, saying she needed them for unspecified “art projects.” After lunch and ice cream with friends about a mile from home, we called it a day. We missed the bus. She wouldn’t walk, so I carried her. She also insisted that I lug the wrapper from her ice cream cone, and the paper plate that had held her hot dog.

My back ached under my burden, which included guilt that I had spent so little time lately with Ella and my growing concern about her post-9/11 garbage-collecting mania. About a block from our house, I could take no more – I placed her down and told her she had to walk. Then I slam-dunked the trash in an overstuffed corner wastebasket.

As I bent down to talk to her, she grabbed my neck with both hands, scratched my face, bit my ear, and called me “a little f----r.” That shocked me – Theresa and I didn’t generally watch our language, but I’m not sure where she heard that one. (The only time she ever cursed before was at age 2 when she indignantly called me a “big in-the-a-- pain.”)

I was still shaken by her outburst the next night when we gathered around the TV to watch the Concert For New York City, the benefit at Madison Square Garden put together by Paul, who frequently visited rescue workers after the tragedy. We awoke Ella for his set, which closed the show and included a new song, “Freedom,” inspired by the attacks.

It marked the first time Ella had seen Paul perform live, even if only on TV. “He looks different than in ‘Hard Day’s Night,’” she said, her brow knitted in concern. “Is he okay? I think he’s older now.”

There were rumors before the show that the three surviving Beatles would reunite – if any cause could bring them together, this would seem to fit the bill. But I knew by then, thanks to our intrepid reporters, George was in no shape to appear.

I volunteered in October to start preparing his obituary, and got no argument from my exhausted bosses. With everything going on in the world, the fate of one man – even one known and beloved around the world – seemed insignificant. It was less a professional fear of being caught unprepared that drove me than a sense of duty.

I gathered the clips folder – a dozen or more small manila pouches stuffed with hundreds of yellowing newspaper stories mentioning George from the days of Beatlemania through the bizarre stabbing attack in his home by a crazed man in late 1999, just before the millennium. I stayed late one night, and wrote a quick just-in-case draft. In the coming days, I’d frequently return to the obituary and spiff up the prose, adding a paragraph or two more – there was much to tell.

The exercise seemed morbid, especially with the news dominated for weeks by death. Even as TV resumed regular programming, there was a feeling that the popular culture had changed with the country. The late-night hosts were subdued. Articles appeared declaring an end to irony (whatever that meant), and predicting a future with less emphasis on entertainment and frivolity. My gut told me that soon enough people would crave diversion more than ever.

Theresa woke me up early on Nov. 30 to tell me George had died. My first instinct was to find out what time the news broke, to see if the story had made any of the papers. It turned out he passed away the day before, but his family held back on an announcement until that morning. We wouldn’t be breaking news, but we’d have an opportunity to give readers a full picture as possible of not just George’s death, but more importantly, of his life.

It was a Friday, my normal day off, but I called to say I would be in. The bosses – editor-in-chief Ed Kosner and executive editor Michael Goodwin, who had led us through the past 11 weeks of insanity – boldly decided we’d put out a special 12-page section to wrap around the paper, filled with sidebars and photographs. I polished the obituary, adding details and quotes from Ringo and Paul, who said, “He is really, just my baby brother.”

A team of weary reporters and editors banded to produce a beautiful tribute, even if in the greater scheme of things there was more important news to worry about.

An early start meant an early finish. I arranged to meet Ella and Theresa at the one place we knew Beatle fans would be: Strawberry Fields in Central Park. As I entered at nightfall, strains of “Here Comes the Sun” greeted me as the wind whipped through the park, lit by scores of candles carried by the crowd. The only ones, it seemed, who weren’t clutching candles were those strumming guitars or banging tambourines.

Unlike past vigils there, there was a sense of almost relief, the kind of burden excising exhale we experience when a loved one is released from suffering. Faces etched for weeks with grief now seemed almost serene.

Perhaps it helped that many children were among the throng. As the sing-along moved into “Can’t Buy Me Love,” Ella and I found a free patch of grass, and ran about goofily like the Beatles did in that wonderful scene in “A Hard Day’s Night,” when they escape the demands of fame for a few precious minutes of carefree lunacy. (The movie was a favorite of Ella’s, who would bar us from the living room, close the doors and run up and down the cherry-wood floor, screaming with the rest of the crazed fans in the opening sequence.)

The next day, the three us looked through all the newspapers together. Ella, three months from her fifth birthday, was just starting to read. One word jumped out at her: “Hester! That’s us!” It was my first byline since Ella was an infant. I felt a strange pride in her discovery, and I could see in her bright eyes the special connection she felt to the story.

About a week later, Theresa struck up a conversation about George with Julia, the mother of one of Ella’s pre-school classmates. It turned out Julia had been raised in Henley-on-Thames, the town where George lived in Friar Park, a rambling estate with a castle built by a local rich eccentric (saluted in song by George in “The Ballad of Sir Frankie Crisp”). Friar Park was George’s refuge from the world, a sanctuary where he indulged in his love of gardening.

Julia told Theresa and Ella how she sometimes ran into George at the local pub, once finding him alone in the kitchen, fixing himself a sandwich.

Ella became fascinated by Julia’s sweet childhood memories of George. She demanded I tell her more about Friar Park. I pulled out some books from our ample Beatles library, showed her pictures of George’s Gothic, whimsically inviting home and read a few passages aloud. “We,” she announced, “are going to write a song about George’s castle.”

She handed me a pen and paper, and began to dictate her list of what should be in the song. “We have to mention his garden. We have to say it’s a castle! We need to talk about the big gates in front.”

I started to draft lyrics that she was quick to critique. “I don’t know what that means – make it simpler,” she’d say – sounding just like a newspaper editor.

The George-inspired tune I crafted in the ensuing days proved tougher to negotiate. “I don’t like that part – make it more like this,” she’d say. Then she’d sing a phrase. It took a few weeks, but this is what we came up with:

Well I ran into a friend who used to live in Henley

And she knew someone we all know, but not in the same way

He was the gardener in the castle, at the Friar Park estate

And people would come from the world around

Just to peek through the iron gates

There were gnomes and caves and passages that wound through the grounds

There were topiaries and wishing wells and even pythons to be found

As he tilled the soil, the gardener would tend to matters of the soul

Chant his mantra, play his ukulele, but he could still rock and roll

Along with his flowers, the gardener raised a son,

And sometimes he’d slip away to the pub when his work was done

Even as his body was ailing,

His garden was desecrated by a sword

Though he’d plant another season

He would soon meet his Sweet Lord

It was a cold November morning when we learned that George had died

So we went to Strawberry Fields, sang some songs and we cried

There we ran into our friend who knew him all those years ago

And she spoke of his Crackerbox Palace and the seeds that he sowed

As our candles cut a beam across the New York autumn dark

Back in that pub in Henley they lifted a glass to the gardener of Friar Park

“It’s good,” Ella said. “But take out ‘topiaries.’”

“Nope,” I said. “‘Topiaries’ stays.”

It became clear to Theresa and me that the song was Ella’s way of trying to take control of and make sense of all the death that surrounded us during those dark weeks. You could do worse with pain and confusion, I supposed, than turning it into art and a celebration of a life.

Not long after we finished the song, Ella declared, “I want to go there.”

“Where?” I asked.

“To George’s castle.”

“Maybe some day, Ella. Maybe some day.”