Last summer, June 3, our friend called us to see if we wanted Rolling Stones tickets for that very night. I have waited months to write about this because a part of me has stopped needing to post every little message we get from Barrett, a part of me—and indeed a part of Lily as well—is maybe thinking, “Shouldn’t we be over this? And don’t other people wish we would be over it?” Meanwhile over the last few months in which I haven’t reported every little communication from our dearly departed, he has indeed sent us little messages regularly.
There was the time in Sai Café, the place Barrett, Lily, and I would go to dinner together—indeed the only place we really did frequent together in the last ten years (it took me about 8 of those years to finally relent and have dinner with them). It’s a sushi bar, and the sushi chefs knew Barrett and Lily because they’d sit at the bar and Lily would eat things that no child (and few adults) would consent to eat, such as baby octopus heads. Anyway, Lily and I have been there twice since he died, both times bittersweet. We don’t go near the bar because Lily has a justified fear that at some point in her life a random person (this applies to the taco bar at Whole Foods as well) is going to ask her how her dad is and she is going to say, “DEAD,” and burst into tears. Or, “Fine,” and burst into tears. So we sat at a table, far from the sushi bar.
We can’t help but think of him when we sit down there. “We should invite in your dad, just to see what will happen,” I suggested. Lily is generally iffy about this proposition, but she is also game.
“Barrett Fiske,” we said quietly in unison, the way we do, and then I changed the subject.
“What do you want to do for your birthday this year?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she answered. Pause.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!” yelled out the sushi chefs joyfully at that moment, to someone else in the room.
Lily and I looked at each other knowingly. The timing. It’s stuff like that. It happens. We think he comes when we say his name. We have never NOT had a sign seconds later. Every single time I drove her to Piven last season we had a 55 or a 555 or a 5555. I stopped writing about them. They seemed like such tiny signs, just for us. But this Rolling Stones concert…keeps tapping me on the shoulder.
Our dear friend Julie told me after she saw the Stones: “I kept thinking of Barrett during the concert. I think he wants Lily to see the Stones.” Although Julie has had at least three deeply fulfilling posthumous Barrett experiences (even though they were not friends in real life), I found that doubtful. It made little sense; Lily doesn’t really even like the Stones. I do. But the tickets were pricey and my motivation was low.
Three days after Julie’s intuition, my friend from high school—we both had loved the Stones back then—called at 8am to see if we could MAYBE go see the Stones that night. I hadn’t talked to this friend in months. What on earth would have kept me from saying yes to that? He had pit tickets: standing only, in front of the stage, $1500 each. I could afford maybe 15 minutes of that pricey ticket…but it would a gift. His friend had last-minute cancelled. We were SO in.
I called Julie to tell her that we MIGHT go see the concert that night. “Oh, honey, I know the tickets will come through. Barrett really wants Lily to be there.” I remained unconvinced, though it was a nice thing for her to say.
At 4pm it was a go and I whisked Lily out of her school’s basketball game, we met our fab friend’s, and got in the line for people with the staggeringly expensive pit tickets, who were allowed to enter two hours before the doors officially opened to stake their claim.
Seasoned concert-goer Lily Fiske said that standing in front of the stage was not optimal; her preference was to be back along the tongue-shaped catwalk, which actually would be closer to Mick, when he walked out. She also mentioned that if we stood along the catwalk, people would be pressing forward, away from us, and that no one would be directly in front of us, so although we would be 50 feet farther from the stage than our 6’7” and 6’4” guy friends, we would have a more unobstructed and comfortable view. It seemed like a good compromise
Lily was sure—and circumstances hinted—that Barrett had had a hand in her chance meeting with her favorite pop star Harry Styles last May. When Lily told me about her meeting him the summer before, I had said, “Wow, that is like me running into Mick Jagger, when I was your age.” That meant very little to her, though Harry Styles could easily play the young Mick in a movie. (Check it out! He looks just like him!) She was all about Harry that May, and I was all about Mick, at her age. (It’s her story, but this will suffice: last summer she ran into Harry Styles poolside in Las Vegas, summer while on a trip with aforementioned friend Julie, and was disappointed that she didn’t get a photo. She went back up to her room and changed for dinner. “Daddy, please, I want to see Harry Styles again!” she petitioned. She descended to the first floor in the elevator, the door opened, and there was Harry. Photo op. Julie was convinced Lily’s daddy had a hand in the incredible timing.)
You can read reviews of the Rolling Stones 50th Anniversary concerts in Chicago. I won’t review it--I saw the Stones in Kansas City in 1981 from the back row—rafters!-- and it was a peak life experience. This was front row. What can I even say.
Mick danced out onto the catwalk a few times, and I thought, “I can’t believe I’m so close to Mick JAGGER!” I was lucky, and blessed, and I KNEW it. I had come a long way—rows and rows and rows—since 1981.
After one of Mick’s jaunts right before our eyes, Lily said, or actually yelled, “Mommy! Did you see him catch my KISS?”
What?
She loudly explained she had been blowing him kisses and he had gracefully caught one behind his back as he turned away from us. I had missed their subtle interaction. What a MOMENT! This daughter of mine: so blessed. Mick had caught her kiss…she had posed with Harry Styles…
What could top THAT?
A few songs later, during Brown Sugar, Mick danced back out onto the catwalk. As he danced right in front of us and we were bathed in his spotlight. I was jumping up and down in gleeful ecstasy and Lily and the three 20-somethings beside her were reaching toward Mick, Lily in her “I LOVE BRITISH BOYS” t-shirt.
Awash in heat and lights and sound was my ephiphany: Mick was totally going to touch someone! Something in me could feel him decide.
“I bet your mother was a tent-show queen…”
A new-age mom, I don’t push, but I was compelled. “Go for it!” I shouted, and slapped Lily on the back in a way that, in real life, she would have glared at me for; but she reacted to the encouragement, and reached her 5’9”-ness a little bit further…
“…and all the boys were sweet sixteen!”
and…a slow five…as opposed to a high-five or a low-five…a really luxurious touch—I saw it--a deliberate TOUCH! from Mick Jagger. Hot. Amazing timing during those lyrics, which I only realized when I watched a YouTube a week later.
We both screamed our loudest concert scream and looked at each other in a NO WAY sort of way. Did he really DO that? He touched no one else that night. He touched no one else on night one, either, according to Julie. I’ve heard he generally doesn’t touch.
After the concert we greeted our friends with glee: “Mick touched Lily!”
“We saw!” they said, “on the monitor!” Apparently it was larger than life…oh to have that video footage.
What does any of this have to do with Barrett, aside from Julie’s intuition? Well, this:
We were let in early, before seat-holders, so that we could spend a couple hours in the pit jostling for space (though because the only people who could afford $1500 pit spaces were (very) grown up, there was no jostling.
I took a picture of Lily claiming our space in her cute concert attire and glanced at my phone. The battery was suspiciously at 55%. I wasn’t buying it. But after the concert, after the Mick-touch, I told Lily. About Barrett’s number.
“But mom! Also! When we walked in! I forgot to tell you. It was 5:55!”
“It was 5:55 while my battery was at 55%?” I asked, unnecessarily.
Indeed. But that’s not all.
After that double 55, as we chilled in the cavernous auditorium waiting for the concert, I saw (couldn’t hear) my phone ringing: Margaret McCabe. It was Barrett’s much-loved friend, Maggie McCabe, a 90-year-old “spiritual friend” from his childhood who had never before called me. In case I had been wondering—and I HAD, ever since Julie mentioned it—whether or not Barrett had a hand in this fortunate invitation…this triple clinched it.
When I called Maggie back the following day it was the third time I’d ever spoken to her, the first being when I called her to report Barrett’s death. Being 90, she said she had no idea that she’d even called me the night before.
Spirit moves in mysterious ways—in case I was wondering.
There was the time in Sai Café, the place Barrett, Lily, and I would go to dinner together—indeed the only place we really did frequent together in the last ten years (it took me about 8 of those years to finally relent and have dinner with them). It’s a sushi bar, and the sushi chefs knew Barrett and Lily because they’d sit at the bar and Lily would eat things that no child (and few adults) would consent to eat, such as baby octopus heads. Anyway, Lily and I have been there twice since he died, both times bittersweet. We don’t go near the bar because Lily has a justified fear that at some point in her life a random person (this applies to the taco bar at Whole Foods as well) is going to ask her how her dad is and she is going to say, “DEAD,” and burst into tears. Or, “Fine,” and burst into tears. So we sat at a table, far from the sushi bar.
We can’t help but think of him when we sit down there. “We should invite in your dad, just to see what will happen,” I suggested. Lily is generally iffy about this proposition, but she is also game.
“Barrett Fiske,” we said quietly in unison, the way we do, and then I changed the subject.
“What do you want to do for your birthday this year?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she answered. Pause.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!” yelled out the sushi chefs joyfully at that moment, to someone else in the room.
Lily and I looked at each other knowingly. The timing. It’s stuff like that. It happens. We think he comes when we say his name. We have never NOT had a sign seconds later. Every single time I drove her to Piven last season we had a 55 or a 555 or a 5555. I stopped writing about them. They seemed like such tiny signs, just for us. But this Rolling Stones concert…keeps tapping me on the shoulder.
Our dear friend Julie told me after she saw the Stones: “I kept thinking of Barrett during the concert. I think he wants Lily to see the Stones.” Although Julie has had at least three deeply fulfilling posthumous Barrett experiences (even though they were not friends in real life), I found that doubtful. It made little sense; Lily doesn’t really even like the Stones. I do. But the tickets were pricey and my motivation was low.
Three days after Julie’s intuition, my friend from high school—we both had loved the Stones back then—called at 8am to see if we could MAYBE go see the Stones that night. I hadn’t talked to this friend in months. What on earth would have kept me from saying yes to that? He had pit tickets: standing only, in front of the stage, $1500 each. I could afford maybe 15 minutes of that pricey ticket…but it would a gift. His friend had last-minute cancelled. We were SO in.
I called Julie to tell her that we MIGHT go see the concert that night. “Oh, honey, I know the tickets will come through. Barrett really wants Lily to be there.” I remained unconvinced, though it was a nice thing for her to say.
At 4pm it was a go and I whisked Lily out of her school’s basketball game, we met our fab friend’s, and got in the line for people with the staggeringly expensive pit tickets, who were allowed to enter two hours before the doors officially opened to stake their claim.
Seasoned concert-goer Lily Fiske said that standing in front of the stage was not optimal; her preference was to be back along the tongue-shaped catwalk, which actually would be closer to Mick, when he walked out. She also mentioned that if we stood along the catwalk, people would be pressing forward, away from us, and that no one would be directly in front of us, so although we would be 50 feet farther from the stage than our 6’7” and 6’4” guy friends, we would have a more unobstructed and comfortable view. It seemed like a good compromise
Lily was sure—and circumstances hinted—that Barrett had had a hand in her chance meeting with her favorite pop star Harry Styles last May. When Lily told me about her meeting him the summer before, I had said, “Wow, that is like me running into Mick Jagger, when I was your age.” That meant very little to her, though Harry Styles could easily play the young Mick in a movie. (Check it out! He looks just like him!) She was all about Harry that May, and I was all about Mick, at her age. (It’s her story, but this will suffice: last summer she ran into Harry Styles poolside in Las Vegas, summer while on a trip with aforementioned friend Julie, and was disappointed that she didn’t get a photo. She went back up to her room and changed for dinner. “Daddy, please, I want to see Harry Styles again!” she petitioned. She descended to the first floor in the elevator, the door opened, and there was Harry. Photo op. Julie was convinced Lily’s daddy had a hand in the incredible timing.)
You can read reviews of the Rolling Stones 50th Anniversary concerts in Chicago. I won’t review it--I saw the Stones in Kansas City in 1981 from the back row—rafters!-- and it was a peak life experience. This was front row. What can I even say.
Mick danced out onto the catwalk a few times, and I thought, “I can’t believe I’m so close to Mick JAGGER!” I was lucky, and blessed, and I KNEW it. I had come a long way—rows and rows and rows—since 1981.
After one of Mick’s jaunts right before our eyes, Lily said, or actually yelled, “Mommy! Did you see him catch my KISS?”
What?
She loudly explained she had been blowing him kisses and he had gracefully caught one behind his back as he turned away from us. I had missed their subtle interaction. What a MOMENT! This daughter of mine: so blessed. Mick had caught her kiss…she had posed with Harry Styles…
What could top THAT?
A few songs later, during Brown Sugar, Mick danced back out onto the catwalk. As he danced right in front of us and we were bathed in his spotlight. I was jumping up and down in gleeful ecstasy and Lily and the three 20-somethings beside her were reaching toward Mick, Lily in her “I LOVE BRITISH BOYS” t-shirt.
Awash in heat and lights and sound was my ephiphany: Mick was totally going to touch someone! Something in me could feel him decide.
“I bet your mother was a tent-show queen…”
A new-age mom, I don’t push, but I was compelled. “Go for it!” I shouted, and slapped Lily on the back in a way that, in real life, she would have glared at me for; but she reacted to the encouragement, and reached her 5’9”-ness a little bit further…
“…and all the boys were sweet sixteen!”
and…a slow five…as opposed to a high-five or a low-five…a really luxurious touch—I saw it--a deliberate TOUCH! from Mick Jagger. Hot. Amazing timing during those lyrics, which I only realized when I watched a YouTube a week later.
We both screamed our loudest concert scream and looked at each other in a NO WAY sort of way. Did he really DO that? He touched no one else that night. He touched no one else on night one, either, according to Julie. I’ve heard he generally doesn’t touch.
After the concert we greeted our friends with glee: “Mick touched Lily!”
“We saw!” they said, “on the monitor!” Apparently it was larger than life…oh to have that video footage.
What does any of this have to do with Barrett, aside from Julie’s intuition? Well, this:
We were let in early, before seat-holders, so that we could spend a couple hours in the pit jostling for space (though because the only people who could afford $1500 pit spaces were (very) grown up, there was no jostling.
I took a picture of Lily claiming our space in her cute concert attire and glanced at my phone. The battery was suspiciously at 55%. I wasn’t buying it. But after the concert, after the Mick-touch, I told Lily. About Barrett’s number.
“But mom! Also! When we walked in! I forgot to tell you. It was 5:55!”
“It was 5:55 while my battery was at 55%?” I asked, unnecessarily.
Indeed. But that’s not all.
After that double 55, as we chilled in the cavernous auditorium waiting for the concert, I saw (couldn’t hear) my phone ringing: Margaret McCabe. It was Barrett’s much-loved friend, Maggie McCabe, a 90-year-old “spiritual friend” from his childhood who had never before called me. In case I had been wondering—and I HAD, ever since Julie mentioned it—whether or not Barrett had a hand in this fortunate invitation…this triple clinched it.
When I called Maggie back the following day it was the third time I’d ever spoken to her, the first being when I called her to report Barrett’s death. Being 90, she said she had no idea that she’d even called me the night before.
Spirit moves in mysterious ways—in case I was wondering.
postscript: Lily's photo was on the Rolling Stones website!
