I remember December 8th, 1980. It is hard to believe it's been 25 years. It makes me feel old to think that. I remember our living room on Lascelles Blvd. I remember the white shag carpet, looking up to the mantle piece and leaning on the speaker (which was only a couple of feet high, but I wasn't that much taller in those days) listening to the CBC. The last thing I expected was to hear that John Lennon had been shot. I was shocked to my core. I think it was the first time I understood that violence can happen to good people. I was transfixed, listening to the radio. I started to cry and went to my room because, with the arrogance of a child, I thought my parents wouldn't understand that John Lennon's death was so upsetting. I failed to understand that they were of his generation and had grown up with him as part of their lives.
On the news last night, they quoted one of his biographers
as saying he was no angel but had made people think about something
other than themselves and that that was as good a legacy as one could
hope to achieve.