December 9th, 1980.
Something seemed very strange that day when Dad came home from work. He seemed to be very distraught about something, but it didn't seem like it had simply been a bad day at work. The only thing I remember happening next was that he fell to his knees, was hugging me tightly, and in tears about something. And then the next thing he told me really took the rug out from under me: John Lennon, from the Beatles, from the band whose works I'd really been enjoying for the past year or so, had been shot and killed yesterday.
Wow, talk about how everything within you just ceases, as it starts sinking in. I remember seeing an article about it in the newspaper that day, and although I didn't read it, that's when I felt that it must be true if was in there. It was pretty quiet in the house the rest of that day, and there wasn't a lot of partying going on in the house after that. The holidays were coming, but that seemed to be the only thing on anyone's mind.
This was the first time I'd ever felt anything like this. It really did feel like a death in the family. A couple of weeks later, after the cloudiness around the house had disappeared a little, I remember sitting by the Christmas tree, as Dad played some of Sgt. Pepper and some other things, but it just didn't feel the same anymore. The magic and wonder that had once been attached was now gone. I found it highly depressing to listen to, for the time being. The loss I felt hung over me for the next few months.