One morning in the mid-1970s, the intercom at Friends Seminary crackled with an announcement that sent whispers rippling through the halls: “Noted person John Lennon is now in the meetinghouse. Walk, don’t run.” We didn’t run, but our excitement was hard to contain. I was in second grade at the time, and like most kids, I knew the Beatles. Sitting on a wooden pew in the balcony of our school’s historic meetinghouse, I remember the collective hush that fell as Lennon entered. There he was: John Lennon, in the flesh. I’m pretty sure he was dressed in black, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light as he stood onstage. He looked exactly like the man from the album covers. A wave of laughter broke the tension as he cracked dry jokes. One boy even asked about the stunning woman who accompanied him—not Yoko Ono, but someone else. But what did he talk about? Music? Politics? Did he sing? And why was he there? For years, I held onto this memory like a treasure. It felt surreal, almost too magical to be real. I’d tell people, *When I was in second grade, John Lennon came to my school!* But recently, when I mentioned it to my daughter, she asked, “Did that happen?” Her question stopped me in my tracks. Of course it happened—didn’t it? In today’s world, there’d be endless evidence: Instagram posts, TikTok clips, shaky phone videos. But back then, an event like this could slip into the haze of memory, leaving behind only fragments and questions. Was it real, or did I imagine it? To this day, I’m still not entirely sure. But it’s a story I’ll keep telling, blurry edges and all. ---