One day many years ago, while sitting in a bar on Valentine's Day with one of my friends instead of being with my girlfriend (which tells you everything you need to know about why that particular relationship didn't last more than a few months longer), talk got around to the classic "Seinfeld" episode with Keith Hernandez and the second spitter on the grassy knoll. I mentioned that Ken Dryden had written that it seemed every American above a certain age could tell you where they were they learned John Kennedy had been shot, and that the Canadian equivalent was when Paul Henderson scored the winning goal against Russia in the 1972 Summit Series. My friend, Dutch by birth and a relatively recent arrival to Canada, didn't appreciate the comparison. But from a nearby table I could see a hand raising slowly, as a man roughly my age sought my attention to confirm that statement, offering his own Henderson story, which was punctuated by his girlfriend spitting out, "You promised you wouldn't talk about hockey!"

I wonder how many more Valentine's they celebrated together.

Perhaps I would have had more luck with my Dutch friend if I had asked if he remembered where he was when he heard John Lennon had been killed, because as time passes it seems more and more that this was a benchmark moment for many people in the same way as Kennedy's shooting and Henderson's goal. I certainly remember where I was 25 years ago tomorrow, when news reached my ears of events in New York the evening before: in bed, where so many of my best tales begin and end.

The Beatles were my first band, one to which I was introduced by my youngish uncles on lazy Sunday afternoons at my grandmother's house. We didn't own a record player until roughly 1974, so my early aural experiences were limited to the radio, which my father controlled, and my uncles' record collection, of which I remember nothing but The Beatles. They had the two double compilation records, running from I believe 1962 to 1966 and 1967 to 1970. My favorite song was "Ticket to Ride" and my least "Let It Be", which made me think of church and Jesus and just left me feeling creepy all over. I worshipped the Fab Four.

Then, one day, one of my uncles said we could no longer play the records because The Beatles had split up. I didn't know that this was part of the deal, and was mightily upset. I now suspect they had already long been split up when this conversation took place, and either my uncle was only now becoming aware of it or else only now was starting to feel betrayed by it. More likely, he had already moved on to Lynyrd Skynyrd or the Allman Brothers, and just didn't want to tell his young nephew that he didn't like The Beatles anymore. Since I accepted his answer without question, it was certainly the correct course.

By the time we did get a record player, my first album purchase was an Elvis Presley collection, and I never did buy any music by The Beatles until their number one hits collection came out on CD two or three years back. But I never stopped singing the songs. Ask my daughters, who for years have been blessed on a semi-regular basis to the wake up call of "A Day in the Life":

Woke up, got out of bed,
Dragged a comb across my head.

In December 1980, my favourite song was John Lennon's "(Just Like) Starting Over", one of the more upbeat but not cloying songs I had ever heard. This was a man who had found the peace he deserved, and it was great to have him back on the radio. I had almost forgotten about Lennon, swayed as I was by Paul McCartney's prolific although, sadly, mostly mediocre output. But Lennon was back, and the future was bright.

Mark David Chapman, of course, had other ideas.

On Tuesday, December 9, 1980, I was lying in bed two days after my return from a triumph with my teammates in the first round of the high school television quiz show "Reach for the Top". I was not, however, in very good shape. On the previous Friday, I had left the hotel we were staying in to visit one of my uncles. While we waited for his wife to return from work, he introduced me to the wonders of smoking hashish, and I vaguely recall singing the praises of Michael Jackson's "Off the Wall" album to this fan of guitar-heavy blues rock. The next morning, I was still very stoned during our first match, yet it was my best performance of the weekend as I led our team in scoring. That evening, after a second victory advanced us to the finals of our flight, we celebrated at a Greek-Mexican restaurant, where our teacher supervisors ordered sangria by the pitcher, which our team - two 17 year olds, 16 year old me, and a pair of 15 year olds - drank with relish. I can't imagine what they were thinking or how many laws the teachers and restaurant collectively broke, but we weren't complaining. So, on Sunday, I was hungover, and with little experience at that point with either drugs or alcohol (and, frankly, little experience with drugs after), I was still at less than maximum capacity on Tuesday morning. So when I reached over to flip on my radio to catch the sports, I briefly thought that what I was hearing about John Lennon was in fact the product of my fuzzy mind. Sadly, it was not.

That evening, the television was full of coverage of John Lennon's career, and I watched as much as I could. It still didn't seem real, and when I was reminded today about McCartney's first public statement that Lennon's death was a drag (for which he was pilloried endlessly by people who didn't think for a moment that there can be no acceptable response to the loss of a person who was, in some ways, a soulmate), I can say that I felt the same way. I wasn't hurt, I wasn't sad. I was bummed out, because this great artist whose musical life had given me so much pleasure was no more. I miss the last 25 years of Lennon music (although not Ono's contributions to same), but I remain grateful for the almost 20 before that. That's what we should remember today, and be thankful. I know I'm going to spend this afternoon listening to The Beatles, and be thrilled that I was given the opportunity to do so.

Rest in peace, John.