Tuesday, April 22, 2014
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.