I posted this last year. I post it word for word again this year:
It was Friday. I was nearing completion of a year long electronic design and engineering course at Treasure Island, a U.S. Navy base in the San Francisco bay, accessible by the Bay Bridge and Yerba Buena Island.
The morning had been consumed with test taking, a weekly ritual to ensure the Navy was getting their money’s worth.
As was our custom, for Friday lunch, we’d go to the Acey-Duecy Club for a burger and a beer. Acey-Duecy Clubs no longer exist but back then they were for first and second class Navy petty officers.
This particular Friday I was with Reed and Gordon. I happened to have my back to the door facing a TV mounted on the wall.
The news flash was basically incomprehensible because nothing like this had happened in my lifetime. And it was fragmentary. Mentioning Parkland Memorial Hospital. President Kennedy shot.
Where were you, what were you doing, who was with you on 22 November 1963?
I was 22 years old then. It remains, more than the birth of my children, more than the planes hitting the towers, the strongest, most memorable event in my life.
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