I have no idea where I was or what I was doing the night I heard John Lennon died. I remember seeing plenty of television news stories with video of people weeping and lighting candles, but when I try to recall the first time I heard about it, I just can’t. It simply didn’t make as big an impression on me as it did on other people.

Actually, I don’t have a lot of associations like that. My memory seems to be association-free. I don’t remember where I was when I heard Reagan was shot, or Ford was shot at. I only remember where I was when I heard about the 9/11 attack because I was in an airplane over Alaska where we were grounded for four days, and I remember that I was at a tech school in Munich when I heard the Challenger blew up because the class wiseass greeted me on the street with, “Hi, Dave! The space shuttle just blew up!”

“Yeah, right,” I said in reply. When I got back to my room the only thing on television, of course, was that video of the explosion, replayed over and over again.

I’m pretty sure I must’ve been in Eau Claire, where I was going to school, when I heard about Lennon, but even with that hint I can’t put myself in place or time. Most of the 80s are a blur to me, anyway. It’s a completely lost memory, as so many are.

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