Editor's note: This year marks the 5th anniversary of the death of George Harrison. The following article originally appeared In Crapshoot! in December of 2002.

All Things DO Pass

by Rick Brown

We were all instructed to make...out of whatever materials we could scrounge up...any musical instrument we so desired. It was an assignment for sixth grade science class. And as you probably can guess...the vast majority of us...boys in particular...decided we would build ourselves a guitar. The project was due early Monday morning shortly after homeroom. Like most kids I procrastinated until the weekend before because even though it was a far more appealing assignment than most for school, the IDEA of making a guitar certainly seemed more appealing than the chore itself. But with the help of my father I assembled my "guitar" out of an empty cigar box, an old broom handle, and some rubber bands. I thought it looked pretty cool myself...even if it really didn't sound like much of anything.

That Sunday night my family gathered around the television just as we did most every evening. At eight o'clock one of my favorite shows came on...the Ed Sullivan Show. I loved Ed's program. On any given Sunday night you could see a magician, followed by an opera star, then a comedian such as Jackie Mason, a guy spinning dinner plates on the top of several sticks, and possibly a grand finale of a pack of prancing...dancing poodles dressed in tutus. I even saw the Three Stooges perform "Niagara Falls" on Ed's show. I loved it! But this particular Sunday evening early in February of 1964 would far exceed even the Stooges. This Sunday night would be magical...historic.

There he was...Ed Sullivan...waving his arms around enthusiastically, as always, shouting out something to the effect of, "And now...for all you little chick-a-dees...direct from Liverpool, England...THE BEATLES!!" The guitars began chiming. The boys began singing. The chick-a-dees screamed their lungs out. "Look at their HAIR!" my mother exclaimed more out of surprise than admonition. "Wow." That's what I thought. One very, very big "WOW". Graphics appeared under the band mates proclaiming who they were by name. There was Paul. George. Some fellow on drums called Ringo. And John. By his name appeared a small disclaimer of, "Sorry girls. He's married." Time stood still. It was as if everyone watching had been uprooted from the melancholy of a nation still mourning the demise of Camelot and dropped magically into some REAL Camelot far, far away. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah.

The next morning there we all were in homeroom, strumming our homemade cigar box guitars and singing, "Whoa oh I'll...tell ya somethin'... I think you'll understand." But we didn't understand at all. Not one little bit. We were spellbound. We boys didn't like girls did we? Of course not. Yet there we were singing about how we wanted to hold their hands...in the very company of girls. This in and of it self was amazing.

I liked George. I'm not sure why. Maybe it was because he seemed a bit brooding...a trait I was labeled many a time. Perhaps it was because he smiled when HE wanted to...not when a reporter asked or a camera was shoved into his face. I never....to this day...wanted to smile just because some one thought I should and neither did he. George appeared to be genuine to me...even at the age of twelve. Don't get me wrong. I liked every one of them. But George somehow stood out for me that night. He didn't seem to revel in the chick-a-dees screams as much...didn't want the camera on him so much as the others. And when he DID take the lead his singing was different that the rest...a little softer...gentler...a bit tenuous in a sensitive way...as if he was just a tiny bit unsure of himself. This made George human to me.

So now when I look back on that Monday morning in February of 1964, I remember singing "Do You Want to Know a Secret"...one of the very few songs George sang in the early years...and playing my little hand made cigar box guitar...rubber bands twanging in a not so musical accompaniment. The song was a little quieter than the others...not so showy...sensitive. The thought makes me smile...because I want to. And I cannot help but be struck by the irony of tobacco helping to move George's departure date well ahead of schedule. It saddens me in a way I have no words for. The gentle souls we share this life with are truly rare. All things must pass. And so goes George... making gentle souls that much closer to extinction. And I believe I hear the sound of little chick-a-dees gently weeping.