Americans recently celebrated the 50th anniversary of one national icon's debut and mourned the passing of another.
I was riveted to our TV that Sunday night in February 1964 when the Beatles first appeared on Ed Sullivan. I knew those four dreamy boys and their new brand of music were here to stay.
As a teen, I spent a sleepless night with friends, listening as the DJ proved that Paul was dead. He deciphered the cryptic musical messages — "The walrus is Paul" and "Turn me on, dead man." When we considered Paul's back to the camera on the Sgt. Pepper album and his walking barefoot, out of sync, on the Abbey Road cover, we were nearly sold. Yet the unthinkable loss of Paul meant we couldn't quite go all the way there.
Before I'd been bitten by the Beatles bug, I'd already been enchanted by another famous figure: Shirley Temple. All ringlets and dimples, she sang and danced her way through sticky situations. In "Heidi," "Bright Eyes" and "Curly Top," Ms. Temple was smarter than the grown-ups and strong enough to know her own mind, even when things looked hopeless.
I was certain that if I had a pair of tap shoes and adults who listened to me, my life would be a song and dance. I didn't just love Shirley Temple. I wanted to be Shirley Temple.
There was little chance of this. I had neither theatrical talent nor hair that took a curl. It crushed me to face this truth, but I made a full recovery. Resilience was something Ms. Temple and I had in common. By fourth grade, I was ready to give my heart to the boys from Liverpool.
Yet, by sixth grade, other things occupied my mind. My father had died that year. My ailing mother, my brother and I sat watching TV one afternoon when there was Shirley Temple dancing, this time on tables. As she crooned "Animal Crackers in My Soup," my mind took a different, dispassionate, turn. My father's dead, I thought, so if my mother dies, I'll be an orphan. They'll send me to an orphanage, too. The idea that I would also dance on tables — defying the inevitable sadness — remained unformed. Still, magical thinking prevailed.
Before long, my mother was gone. I went to live with an aunt — no orphanage for me. To my disappointment, I didn't suddenly become an irresistible beauty for whom things always turned out fine. In true Shirley Temple form, I soldiered on.
Shirley Temple appears three times on the most famous rock album cover of all time: "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band." The Beatles were instructed to provide a list of the people they most admired, the artwork representing those who'd attended a mythical concert in the park. It intrigued me to learn that the Fab Four — my heroes — also had a thing for Ms. Temple.
For a little girl like me, Shirley Temple was the whole package. Her ability to triumph over challenges with a smile and determination in spades may have been unrealistic, but it made me believe, when I needed it most, that difficult circumstances could be overcome. The charismatic Beatles and their lyrics carried me over the chasm that separated the little girl from the young adult — through several new schools, the deaths of my parents and those rocky adolescent years.
I did, indeed, get by with a little help from my friends.