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Yoko had given Paul, George, Ringo, and George Martin a few unfinished songs John was working on before he died. They would produce “Real Love” and “Free As a Bird” as if “John was on vacation,” as Paul said. During the telecast, ABC tagged now and then onto the screen the time left to hear the “brand-new Beatle song,” just like CHUM’s “world premier.” At the end of that first broadcast, they played the “Free As a Bird” video, a montage of all those familiar Beatle images with the song. Starting from Ringo’s familiar solitary drumbeat to the ending clip of John Lennon’s voice, it did not disappoint me. To hear Paul and George lovingly add a chorus and complete their mate’s song was nothing short of miraculous.

One day, a few weeks before the Anthology broadcast, my phone rang. It was Pierre Trudeau. We had become friends during my brief foray into politics. I had been courted years before by the Liberal Party to run for Parliament. At that time I made it clear that I wanted to meet him before I made any decisions. It was arranged and when we first met in Montreal I told him, “Mr. Trudeau, I had two great heroes growing up. The Beatles and Pierre Trudeau.” He blushed and replied, “I can understand the Beatles, but I’m just an ex-politician.” That day we talked more about John Lennon and the Beatles than about politics. I told him how I felt responsible for his meeting with John and Yoko, and I told him I would send him a copy of the tape, which I did. He was a great lover of the arts, particularly poetry. His knowledge was vast and he could quote verse at the drop of a hat. He told me that what appealed to him most about John was that he was “a great poet.” I asked him what he thought of Yoko. He told me that he had been in touch with her since John’s passing and had visited her in New York. “She is one of the most remarkable women I have ever met.”

The day he called, he suggested I come to see him and to bring my kids. He had heard that I had been unwell. “Thank you so much, Mr. Trudeau,” I told him. “We’re friends, Jerry,” he had answered. “It’s about time you called me Pierre.”

Trudeau died in 2000 and I realized then that my heroes had mostly all passed away. I was fatigued with the life I led. Not being able to hear a new song from John or have a chat with Trudeau made the world a dimmer place. Increasingly, I turned to the creative things that inspired me as a child. Most importantly, I decided to do something artistic, as a tribute, with my story. For years I had been approached to sell or exploit my John Lennon material. I had never been happy with the ideas. Finally, I decided it was time. I started to talk to local artists about doing a short film using my original material. I was not a filmmaker but I threw myself into the process. It was the same determined approach that led me to John and Yoko’s hotel room. I had decades before thought of a title for anything I would do about my experience: I Met The Walrus. It always had such meaning for me.

I began to work with a young Toronto animator named Josh Raskin on the film. He introduced me to the work of a young Montreal illustrator, James Braithwaite, whose work I loved. His drawings had the wit and aesthetic of John Lennon. The three of us met and began planning the immediate production of I Met The Walrus. Best of all, these young fellows loved the Beatles, were captivated by my story, and brought great enthusiasm to this crazy idea.

A makeshift studio was set up over a paint store in downtown Toronto. Once a week or so I’d check in with them. From the first of James’ drawings I was amazed at my great luck. They were compelling, made with respect for John, his words and my experience. Within a year, the film was finished and I got the nervous call from Josh. “Jerry, it’s done,” he reported to me. “We want you to see it.” I rushed over to the studio and sat down with my young and nervous friends. I was astonished. It was beautiful, provocative, funny, and a fitting tribute to