Other than Ringo, Paul was always my least favorite Beatle.  Which is to say, I still loved him like a boyfriend, father-figure and god-like-being at fifteen.  Just, compared to John and George, he seemed a little square and self-involved in a reasonable way.

There was also something about Linda Eastman McCartney, stepping into the scene late in the game, having already been married and a civilian and photographer, which I wanted to be, that rubbed me the wrong way.

But I always loved the McCartney album, the inset photos of Heather and Martha the sheepdog, a cat in a field, baby Mary stuffed into Paul’s jacket.  They didn’t look edgy, just freckled and happy, a world of four, which I guess they were at that point.

Now that I’m grown I hope it was as ideal as it looks—shirtless children running barefoot and dogs without leashes.  For me, those family photographs might be heaven.


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