It is a bitterly cold Saturday afternoon, and I am behind my computer attempting to work. Real work, the kind that demands concentration and effort. But try as I might, words swiftly flee my mind before I can type them as the music emanating from my teenage son’s bedroom continues ceaselessly.

“Baby says she’s mine you know, she tells me all the time you know, she said so . . .”

My son, Jordan, and his friends Clay and Roland are faultlessly harmonizing to a song that takes me back more than four decades. As their voices arch and flow through the lyrics, I am remembering a time when I didn’t understand what the hullabaloo about this singing group, the Beatles, was all about, or why my older sisters were so gaga-crazy about these guys named John, Paul, George and Ringo.

In my mind’s eye I can see my parents sharing the sofa, with my 5-year-old brother between them. My sisters, ages 12 and 16, are sprawled across overstuffed chairs, and I, age 8, am sitting cross-legged on the carpet. I can recall with crystal clarity how transfixed we were as we focused on the grainy black-and-white images of the Beatles as they took the stage on “The Ed Sullivan Show.”

It was Feb. 9, 1964, and we were unaware that we were witnessing history in the making. The Beatles were performing their American debut, and music would never be the same again.

“She says she loves you, and you know that can’t be bad. Yes, she loves you, and you know you should be glad,” the boys are singing now, and even more memories arise.

When “The Ed Sullivan Show” was all over, my sisters were even more starry-eyed, my brother had fallen asleep, my parents were preparing their brood for bed and I still didn’t “get it.” The first American appearance by the lads from Liverpool had been hawked and promoted in print and on the airwaves almost ceaselessly in the weeks prior to the show. But aside from some interesting goings-on in the audience as the camera panned hysterical, swooning teenage girls, I felt somewhat let down. What was the big deal, anyway?

In retrospect, I realize that I was simply too young. My adoration of the Beatles would come later. As my sisters and I climbed the stairs to our bedrooms, I heard my thoroughly unimpressed mother say of the Fab Four, “For heaven’s sake, now that they’re making all that money they should be able to afford to get their hair cut.”

Now my pubescent trio serenades me with the soothing words of “Let It Be.”

“When I find myself in times of trouble mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be . . .”

Nineteen sixty-nine. The war in Vietnam rages, NASA prepares Apollo 11 for a lunar landing, and the Beatles perform their final concert atop the Apple Records building. I am 13 years old and I finally “get it.” The Beatles have become one of my favorite bands, but I have escaped the mania they incited in teenagers back in 1964. Nevertheless, their music is a prominent part of my life, and I suspect it will be until the end of my days.

All these years later, I think it’s pretty neat that my own son “gets it.” That there seems to be a resurgence in the popularity of the Beatles — even though they disbanded in 1970 and two of them have died — is a testament to the timelessness of their music.