Labor Day, 1975.
Peter Kramer, a furniture maker whose work was profiled in The Washington Post, had shown his pieces in Bethesda.Maryland.
Among the visitors was Yoko Ono’s sister. She was drawn to a cradle—trestled base, crafted with the sensibility of an 18th-century artisan. She told Yoko. She told John. Days later, Peter received a call from Lennon’s secretary, Mrs. Glass: they wanted the cradle.
Improbably, I was the one to deliver it.
At the time, I was between selves. I had recently traded being a keyboard player in a band for trudging through graduate courses in Charlottesville, trying to wrest direction from a recently published story in a prestigious journal.
Peter called. “Would you take it up to New York?” he asked. That gesture—his trust —was a kindness that has stayed with me for decades.
That Saturday, the cradle was nestled into the back of Peter’s station wagon. I pulled away from Gay Street in Washington, Virginia, In less than five hours I found myself idling at the side gate of the Dakota. I had not stopped.
A doorman approached. He glanced at the Virginia plates, possibly assuming I was lost. But I had a password—a folded note Peter had pressed into my hand.
“I have a cradle to deliver. Personally. To John Lennon.”
That word—personally—was meant to be my ticket. It wasn’t. But the password made him make a call from a booth. The iron gate opened. I was inside.
The doorman helped unload the cradle. He directed me to a small elevator. Soon I was being raised into another world.
The elevator opened on a black door. I knocked.
It opened immediately.
He was thinner than I expected, barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was shorter than mine. But there was no mistaking who he was. He smiled and said hello.
My mouth went dry. Somewhere in my head a voice attempted levity—You say goodbye, and I say hello. I merely extended my hand.
“I’m from Virginia. I’ve driven five hours to bring you this cradle.”
He beamed, instantly gracious.
The door opened onto a kitchen—larger than my entire apartment. A woman was chopping greens. A far wall was lined with chromed, glass-front refrigerators, ceiling to floor like a 7-11, filled with produce, fruit, bottled juices.
He kept shaking his head. “You didn’t stop?”
Then, the unexpected: “You hungry? Want something to eat?”
I was unprepared for his sincerity. I declined.
To the left of the kitchen was a room layered in Oriental rugs—one looked like a Traveler’s Cheque made out to Lennon. I swear the embroidered signature read Paul McCartney.
“How old is this?” he asked, running his hand over the grain.
When I told him it was a reproduction, he was surprised. I showed him how to lock it into its trestle base. He tried it himself, gazing at the gentle sway, perhaps picturing a baby inside.
Then: “Come with me.”
We entered a room with a commanding view of the city. The white piano sat nearby, luminous in the sun like a secular altar. We sat down.
He offered again. “What can I get you?”
“I’m good,” I said, trying to mask my awe. “Just meeting you is enough.”
He laughed. “You sure?”
“Well,” I said, “maybe… something signed. If that’s not too much.”
He smiled and disappeared.
I was alone with the piano. I could play “Strawberry Fields” well enough– though I played it in C major. He’d recorded it in Bb. I didn’t dare try to play it on this piano. It wasn’t a piano anymore—it was a monument. I folded my hands in my lap as if I were in church.
When he returned, he carried a marker and copies of Instant Karma. He signed them all—“To Kathy, with love, John Lennon”—for my wife, one each for my younger brothers, one for a good friend. On each, he doodled a self-portrait.
I don’t know exactly what he felt that afternoon. Maybe he was trying on fatherhood for size. Maybe he wanted someone around who didn’t appear dazzled. Maybe—my least favorite theory—he was just hungry.
After handing me the records, we shook hands. He walked me to the kitchen. One last time: “You sure you don’t want something?”
“I have everything,” I said.
Four weeks later, Sean Taro Ono Lennon was born.
Shortly, after that, to show his love, John sat at that piano and wrote, Close your eyes. Have no fear. The monster’s gone. He’s on the run and your daddy’s here.
He composed it in the key of D major.
Bio:
David Arn is a veteran recording artist whose music has been featured on NPR stations, the BBC, and heard on Delta Airlines commercial flights.
You can find him at davidarn.com and on FB at facebook.com/DavidArnMusic
Fairfield University. University of Virginia
