My wife calls me her 80-year-old pre-teen husband. Complete with the appreciation of the finer things in life — The Carpenters, the words “jeepers” and “golly” and love of another world, a simpler world.
I’ve been old my whole life. I would fall asleep listening to the radio, since only the richest among us had televisions in bedrooms. I would sometimes play what AM radio stations I could hear from suburban New York City — Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Atlanta, Chicago — as I danced across the AM dial.
Sean Murphy
ncG1vNJzZmivp6x7rbHAnZyrZZOWua16wqikaKegnruqu81omqikpaK7qr%2FTrGacp5uaeqStzaxkmqaUYsCwrdGipaBln6eutbvRsmaaqqSesK2xvp2ZbpmUbIVxecRqbZ1lYWaypnmYnZubZZNshaWxlm1oa5tmZ3upwMyl