McCartney Times

(by Ruth McCartney)

“It’s a drag.” Paul McCartney, England, December 8, 1980.

My beloved step-brother was never one to deal with soul wrenching grief in a practical manner. He was brought up in the guilt-ridden Catholic mind set of “bury-your-head-in-the-sand.com.” “Let’s not talk about it son,” a la father Jimmy Mac.

He and the world had just lost someone very dear to them. I had lost my Uncle John, the myopic, misunderstood, manipulative, mystifying Mop-Top who had helped me to learn to ride a bicycle; Julian and Sean had lost a father; Cynthia, her knight in shining armour; Yoko, a fellow artist, contemporary and house husband … and Paul? Well, call me crazy, but he lost the wife. I’m certainly not implying anything of a carnal nature here, but to almost all intents and porpoises (as John would have put it), what they had was a marriage.

Mark David Chapman’s selfish quest for his Warhol-esque fifteen minutes of fame was the fatal wound to an injured relationship that had lasted almost 23 years. This unconventional partnership, much like a paradigmatic marriage, had endured its sundry situations … its honeymoon period;

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