SUBSCRIBER-ONLY NEWSLETTER
By David French
Opinion Columnist
It’s early on a January morning in 1979, I’m 10 years old, and the adventure is about to begin.
My alarm jolts me awake. Snow is falling outside, and my mother tells me that school is canceled. We canceled school every time it snowed in Kentucky, and for me, that was always the best possible news. I grab my winter gear, scarf down some Cheerios, and then I’m off. “Bye, Mom,” I say. “I’m going to Brent’s house,” and that’s the last she sees of me for about 10 hours — until I’m home for family dinner.
