I remember exactly where I was when it happened: On a rocking chair trying to get an obstinate six-month old to go to sleep. The television was on but I wasn’t really watching the football game. That is, until Howard Cosell stopped his play-by-play to make an announcement he felt couldn’t wait. John Lennon was dead.
The baby sensed my shock and settled down. I put him in his crib. Then I went into the next room, turned off the light, crawled into bed, and covered my head with blankets. I stayed that way until noon of the following day. Only the week before I’d heard Lennon on the radio, returning from a five year hiatus from the lusting, grasping hands of adoring fans. He needed to get off the carousel, as he said, and learn to bake bread.
Although there are many great songs on his last album, Starting Over, I wish he’d become a baker instead. Many of you were probably in diapers (or perhaps not even a twinkle in your father’s eyes) and have no memories whatsoever of those dark days that followed his death but for me, it was the end of a dream.
