Jerome John Garcia (August 1, 1942 – August 9, 1995)

We all travel back through time. Where the temporal may not pass, the minds-eye goes freely.

What is it that can cause a ten year old boy to pause? Having already survived the fallout from the hydrogen bomb test on Bikini Atoll, the premier of The Mickey Mouse Club, potential hip dislocation dancing to Heartbreak Hotel, invention of the Frisbee, the creation of NASA, Fidel Castro coming to power, Bill Mazeroski's home run, Yuri Gagarin, Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday, that fateful day in Dealy Plaza, and 1964.

The summer of '64. A fine year to be ten years old. Little did I know what was about to happen on that beautiful sun drenched summer day. I can remember it so well because I recall exactly where I was and where I was living at the time. I was alone in the back yard. The cute girl next door was actively ignoring me, by trying to get my attention. My mind was on Cassius Clay and killing nazis. I had just pulled a Pete Rose and a Mickey Mantle from a couple of packs of baseball cards, gum in mouth and pet beagle at my feet. School was a distant memory and life was as it should be for a boy my age. And then it happened.

An event so seminal in a young man's life that all things subsequent are newly defined as a linear division between the alpha and omega. An event that has shades that color the entirety of a life yet sung. An event so revealing it walks with him through life, as an expressive companion to his soul.