“What are you supposed to do when they keep killing your heroes?”

I knew the voice instantly. It was Dick Weaver, my closest friend. It was 8 in the morning on Dec. 8, 1980, and I was appropriately in a fog as I hadn’t gotten to bed until 3:45 a.m. the night before. I was in the process of opening up a new retail store in Detroit Lakes and was spending 18 hours a day there and driving back to Fargo at night to sleep.

I didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about and I told him so.

He said, “You better sit down.”

There was no way on earth I was prepared for the news.

“John Lennon was killed last night.”

I was stunned. Slack-jawed. I felt sick to my stomach. It was only appropriate that Dick told me the news, because I discovered the Beatles at Dick’s house in January 1964. John

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