Catching up with Ringo Starr 60 years later

"We were all on this ship in the sixties, our generation, a ship going to discover the New World. And the Beatles were in the crow's nest of that ship." 

—  John Lennon

BANGOR, Maine — We were wonderstruck at the sight of a 75-year-old former Beatle parading around the stage like a young Olympian.

 A smorgasbord of ageless rock and rollers, whose timeless music brought the audience to their feet all evening, looked on as Ringo Starr shouted peace and love followed by a piece sign to the cheers of a grateful crowd last Wednesday night at the Cross Insurance Center.

Ringo introduced his All-Starr Band, which featured: Steven Lee Lukather, singer, songwriter and guitarist whose know for his work with Toto; Greg Alan Rolie, a keyboardist and organist who was also a lead singer for the bands Santana and Journey; singer and songwriter Todd Rundgren; Richard Page, lead singer bassist for Mr. Mister; saxophonist Warren Ham and drummer Gregg Bissonette.

Several of the musicians played their own music, with many of Ringo’s favorites like “Photograph” and “Yellow Submarine” interspersed throughout the evening.

These guys have aged like the rest of us, but their precious voices have not withered over time. They sounded like they were in the prime of their lives.  Time has been kind to all of them and their music. Ringo’s voice never wavered and his quirky sense of humor made us all smile.

Listening to three Santana songs with Rolie working his magic with his voice and nimble fingers on the keyboard was a delight for this Santana fan. I thought Carlos was somewhere in the building providing backup on each of the three songs.

Rungren’s rendition of “Bang on the Drum” made us all feel like banging on a drum all day. Page’s voice is still stunning and Lukather is still one helluva guitarist.

Ringo bid the audience adieu with his heart-rending rendition with “A Little Help from My Friends.” Of course, we all could have listened to all his friends play for another hour.

What a son of a gun!

I haven’t been to a rock concert since Crosby Stills, Nash and Young played at the old Boston Garden in 1977. I knew Ringo was still touring with a variety of talented artists over the years but never considered attending the band’s performances until my son sold me on the idea several months ago.

My son, Anthony, had an ulterior motive to persuade me to shell out $240 for the three tickets for a show in Bangor.

For years, I reminded my son that The Beatles performed three miles from my home in Revere, Mass., on Aug. 18, 1966. The mop-tops played at a racetrack called Suffolk Downs, which is located in East Boston, which right next door to Revere.

I was six years old when my cousin Suzy informed me that the Beatles were coming to Boston on a hot summer day.

I was terrified and raced for home to tell my mother that huge beetles were heading this way and it was time to get the hell out of Dodge or be eaten by giant bugs. She was puzzled but smiled at her frightened son. She explained that the Beatles were musicians who were part of the British Invasion of talented rock singers.

What the hell did I know that the four Lads from Liverpool were a worldwide sensation and made young girls scream and cry with every note they sang.

My father, who wasn’t a rock-and-roll fan, thought the Beatles could spark the end of civilization as we knew it. A few years later, I couldn't get enough of the Fab Four.

Anthony’s angle was that I now had an opportunity to see a Beatle perform and settle a score with history. Hey, if a guy from Ireland can fly a couple of thousand miles to see Ringo and his All-Starrs, making the 90-minute drive to Bangor was an easy sell.

Hanging out with my son and wife, Terri, who danced and sang the night away, and catching up Ringo 60 years later was worth the price of admission.

Another friend departs

"Why does it take a minute to say hello and forever to say goodbye?" — Author Unknown

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together?　 I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave.　 Someone always leaves.Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos." — Charles M. Schulz

AUBURN, Maine — The corner deli was a hangout for lifelong gamblers, sports fanatics, coffee lovers and loyal customers who purchased  top-shelf salami or ham.

Conversation was just as important as making money at one of the best delis in the Greater Boston area.

The older gentlemen met at the corner of Broadway and Revere Street to sip a strong cup of Joe on Sunday mornings — and buy a pound of mortadella. 

The usual customers lingered long after they bought their meat to sound off about the Red Sox or Celtics. They were all arm-chair prognosticators and self-proclaimed experts on the future of Boston sports teams. 

But gambling was always the hottest topic of the morning. Everybody had a tip on a horse or dog in the ninth race. They talked about laying down their  bets at Wonderland or Suffolk Downs. I often referred to Suffolk as Suffering Downs, where hard-luck gamblers emptied their wallets looking for that one big score. The cliental at the Wonderland dog track was no different.

My father was the big draw at DiPietro's Deli. He was the high school baseball coach who  also served as  a spokesman for this unofficial brotherhood of sports nuts and gamblers. He would carry on in-depth conversations about the Patriots or that horse in the eighth race in between slicing meat and ringing up purchases

Of course, the owner, Carl DiPietro, would, on some occasions, make an appearance on Sunday mornings. Carl was a big man who could handle himself, but he was also a kind and trusted human being with integrity. He had the instincts of a  boxer and the brains of a college professor.  He was no stranger to colorful language , but the use of his ear-splitting adjectives made him one of the boys. 

Carl fit right in with the rest of the Sunday bunch. Like all of them, he loved to gamble and was regular at Wonderland. Revere is that kind of town where the action can be seductive.

I respected him for the respect he gave my father and me. He was a generous employer who took care of his help during the Christmas onslaught when hundreds of customers stopped in to buy expensive prosciutto for their pizza gainers. Old ladies would vie for the prosciutto bones to make their Italian soups.

When I worked with him, Carl would regale me with his exploits on the strip at Revere Beach. He was a regular at some pubs and enjoyed the Boston nightlife. He was not one to hold back or keep his opinions to himself. He was an avid listener of Elvis Presley and remained loyal to the King long after Presley was laid to rest in Memphis. Carl was also a fan of Roy Orbison and the Beatles because the guy really had good taste in music.

He also had a big smile and loved good jokes, and he was not shy about telling a few naughty ones when he was in the company of his trusted friends. I was  lucky  to be  included in his inner circle.

When I needed of $700 to pay off a student loan, and I didn't want to bother my dad, I turned to Carl for a loan. I was apprehensive, but Carl turned to me and said, "Just keep track of your hours and work it off." That was it. The deal was done. But I was always grateful to this man for that generous act of kindness and understanding.

Carl once told me this: "Don't ever steal from me. Eat anything you want, and take a sandwich to school if you would like. But just don't steal from me."

I never did.  Betraying this man's trust was simply out of the question.

But Carl was stolen from all our hearts when he died this week at 64 years old  — way too young for man who still had a lot of living to do.

English poet and priest John Donne once wrote, "Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind."

Carl took an interest in me and played an important role in my youth, and in doing so, he became a friend for life

  He will eventually become a treasured memory of my past, but that's just not good enough for me.