Just saw a nice Jerry Narron story in The Cincy Post.
Has it really been 26 years?
Right now, it seems like it was just yesterday. I had just finished my afternoon paper route. I was in my bedroom – resting on my bed. I was listening to Paco on WKTU on the stereo. They interrupted with the news flash. I jumped off my bed and ran downstairs to the living room. My dad was watching Channel 7 – and they broke in with the story too.
The next few days are a blur for me. I was a zombie – I suppose. The next thing I actually remember was days later – it was late, around 11 pm, and everyone in the house was asleep, except me. I was sitting in the kitchen, by myself, and I just started crying like a baby. My mother heard me and came downstairs. She asked me why I was crying. I told her that I never felt worse in my whole life – which was less than 17 years long at that time.
Mom told me that I needed to get a grip and start moving on. And, as much as I probably have moved on, every time I see a story like the one on Narron, I’m brought right back to that afternoon when I was resting in my bedroom on August 2, 1979 – when the unthinkable happened.