Editor's Notebook: My Robin Gibb Memories

If everyone, according to Andy Warhol, has their 15 minutes of fame, I will live forever in Bee Gees history as the Girl with the White Roses.

I became a diehard Bee Gees fan later in their career. It's true that I was a disco girl; growing up only blocks away from the Bay Ridge, Brooklyn nightclub, 2001 Odyssey where "Saturday Night Fever" was filmed, it was inevitable that my high school wardrobe would include silver spandex pants and purple stilettos -- and that there was a photo of John Travola, torn out of a teen magazine, taped inside my locker.

The moment when my mother came home with my "Saturday Night Fever" album is still crystal clear; I did the Bus Stop and the Hustle under many a disco ball.

But it was later, when I was in my 30s, after I was given free tickets to a Bee Gees concert from a local radio station, that I found out just how deep my love truly was, for the Bee Gees.

From the moment Barry, Robin and Maurice gathered around a single mic with their heart-achingly beautiful harmonies, their music got under my skin and forever into my soul. Suddenly, although I'd never been a woman who went to concerts, I found myself booking plane tickets to Las Vegas and Ireland for "One Night Only" performances by the Bee Gees. 

Crazy? Some might say so. But in the course of crossing an ocean, I was following my heart -- something people just don't do often enough in too-short lives.

Seizing the moment -- that's something I learned from my mother, who told me, as she lay dying at 53, never to be afraid to live.

When I went to the MGM Grand for the first One Night Only concert, I decided to something totally impetuous -- bring the Bee Gees three bouquets of white roses. Not something I'd ever done before or since, I was scared to death, making my way up that seemingly endless aisle. But I did it - -and when Robin Gibb reached down to take those roses from my hands, I had no idea the moment would be captured forever, literally, by the camera crew that was filming the event for a New Year's Eve showing of the concert.

When the video aired, there I was -- and forever after, I've been the Girl with the White Roses to Bee Gees fans worldwide.

After that truly one-night-only experience, I was fortunate enough to meet all three of the Brothers Gibb. Although I'd seen a number of other performances, including "Live By Request" taping, a "Good Morning America" appearance, and a memorable tribute to Maurice at the Grammys, I finally met the Bee Gees for a few unforgettable moments after a New York "Saturday Night Fever" reunion at Madison Square Garden.

Maurice was funny and warm, Barry was gracious -- and Robin took the time to really talk to me. Yes, he gave me an autograph, which, today, is tucked away with my Bee Gees lunch box and my Bee Gees Close N'Play record player, memories of another time.

But more important, he talked about his music and really listened, when I told him how much that music meant to me. He was a true gentleman.

I have always said Robin's voice was so pure, so hauntingly beautiful, that it reminded me of the bells on Christmas morning. And when I heard that Robin died on Sunday at 62 after a long battle with cancer -- the same type of cancer that took my mother's life -- I was inconsolable, just as I had been when Maurice died in 2003. 

No, we never were friends. We weren't even aquaintances, not really. But the sadness, the encompassing sense of Robin's loss, was very real. 

Singers touch us, in the deepest parts of our hearts. They bare their souls to share the universal chord of emotions that bind us all. Their voices, their lyrics, are the background music for our lives. And when those voices are stilled, they leave behind an echoing silence of sadness no sound can fill.

Sing with the angels, Robin. Thank you for a lifetime of music. I will remember, always.