Memory is strange. My son, Dan, has a savant-like ability to precisely place and describe even the most mundane events, going back to nursery school. My recall of even important moments is foggier. Unlike most people born before 1960, I do not remember where I was when I learned that John F. Kennedy had been shot.
However, one very distinct memory I have from my youth is where I was on January 22, 1973, at about 10 AM. Continue reading “January 22, 1973, at about 10 AM”