Meeting Olivia

If this wasn’t our greatest teen-age adventure, it is certainly the most fun to talk about. To the best of my memory, the facts of this story are true. The reflections are my own. The adventure was real.

It was the summer of 1975 and Olivia Newton-John was coming to perform at the Minnesota State Fair. One August evening with the Fair a week or two away, Brian, Bob and I were hanging out, pondering the wonder of seeing Olivia live in-concert. The three of us shared a yearning for Olivia that psychology has undoubtedly categorized for accurate diagnosis and appropriate treatment. But in simple terms, we were just goofy about her.

It had to be our buddy Bri who had the wild idea of trying to meet Olivia. Bri always was the perfect combination of wizard and scientist: first imagine the impossible, and then figure out a way to make it happen. Bob was real practical, so he was good at getting things off the drawing board. My usual role was to anticipate how we might get in trouble and suggest alternatives. I was the self-appointed wet blanket. But tonight’s idea carried a mandate like none other. If there was a way to meet Olivia, we must find it.

Obviously we couldn’t sneak back stage of the state fair grandstand because they’d throw us out. And we couldn’t break into Olivia’s hotel room, because we would get arrested. But there was one opportunity and it was genius in its simplicity. We would meet her as she arrived at the airport.

We knew from Billboard Magazine that Olivia was on tour that summer, and Toronto was her concert date immediately prior to the Minnesota State Fair. The very night that our scheme was birthed, we jumped on our bikes and went out to the airport. I think we got there about 11:00 and the airport was pretty quiet. But international airports never close, so we went to the booths of all the airlines, collecting their flight schedules. We looked for all the flights arriving from Toronto on the day we knew Olivia would be traveling. We knew that the potential of a private jet could mess with our plan, but important adventures carry such uncertainties. The plan was in place, and we waited for the big day.

On the day Olivia would be arriving, one of our parents gave us a ride to the airport. We were wearing our better school clothes. Our buddy Mark was the fourth member of our team. He looked older and more mature that Bri, Bob and me, and we thought we needed an air of respectability. We also had worked up a bit of a ruse. We were going to present ourselves as reporters. We didn’t want to flat-out lie, so we were prepared to say that we were from "The Standard” newspaper, because our high school paper was “The Roosevelt Standard.” Being reporters would also explain the cameras (a couple Kodak instamatics), Mark’s movie camera, and Bri’s tape recorder. We had prepared some questions if we could actually get an “interview.”

As we were loitering around the airport, suddenly it occurred to us that if Olivia was flying in from Toronto, she would need to go through customs. So we raced over to the customs area. This was a stroke of luck. Somehow we confirmed that the four young musician-types goofing around in the customs parking lot were indeed Olivia’s band! One of them actually asked us if we were their drivers! We did not dare have much of a conversation with these guys. They were too cool – way out of our league. Somewhere in our sick little minds, we thought we’d have better luck with the world’s most popular female vocalist.

The customs building was not conducive to us barging in. We waited right outside the door. After a few minutes, Olivia’s main dude (we assumed her road manager) came outside, saw our cameras and recorder, and said to us “We’ve had a difficult time here. When we come out I don’t want any filming or taping, do you understand?” We were intimidated. He was treating us like kids—we were being scolded by a grown-up. We said meekly “OK.” The dude went back in the building. We conversed quickly: “He can’t stop us from saying ‘hi,’ and we’ll get it on tape! Mark, you be ready to film, and Jim you try to snap a picture.” We were ready to be “paparazzi” before we’d ever heard the word.

In a couple minutes, the dude was back outside and in our face again. “I said no filming or taping!” And to Bri he said “You take that recorder out of record mode or I’ll take your cassette!” Bri held it up in the dude's face and clicked the recorder off. Now we were really whipped pups.

The dude went back inside, and immediately came out with Olivia. She was wearing the typical celebrity disguise: big sunglasses and a big hat. She looked at us and smiled and said “Hi” as the dude whisked her passed us and down into the waiting limo. I didn’t even have the nerve to snap a picture of the limo as it drove away.

We went to Olivia’s concert that night, and then because there was a second show, we hung around outside the grandstand fence where we could listen to the whole thing again. Outside the fence were some girls our age. We bragged to them about what we had done at the airport, and they were very impressed. That made us feel pretty good.

And that was that.

My greatest adventures have been adventures of the heart. While mentally we grow and mature over the years, the heart is always young. Feelings never grow old. I think far differently now than I did as a teenager. I think back to those adolescent days and I hardly recognize the way I thought about life. But I still recognize the feelings. Without effort, I feel those feelings again. Wow – memories and feelings. Today I’m remembering the day in 1975 when I met Olivia Newton-John.

I remember you, Olivia – do you remember me? Yes, I think you do. I feel it.