Lessons From a Fishmonger While the Twin Towers Fell
On Sept. 11, 2001, I Was Driving around L.A., Collecting Dirty Mops, and Contemplating the Nature of Ignorance
The story goes, my grandpa was sitting on his recliner watching TV when the news broke. JFK had been shot and killed. My mother was seven years old. She’d been playing in her father’s corn patch in the back of the house on Mahar Avenue in the Wilmington section of L.A. She saw my grandpa shed a tear for the 35th president. JFK’s portrait was one of two that hung on the wall of the antechamber adjoining the kitchen. The other portrait was of the pope.
My own JFK moment …
