I left home for college in 1970, always knowing that I would never move back to Fort Wayne, Ind. I visit often and have kept in touch with most of my high school friends. It is the place where I expected my parents to grow old and die. But one thing I hadn't considered was that my parents would outlive all their friends, and with their four adult children scattered across the country, Fort Wayne grew foreign to them.
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EDITOR'S NOTE: We said shortly after 3 p.m. ET this piece would likely not air this evening, but as is often the case in this business, that's changed again. So, as of 4:20, be looking for this piece on tonight's broadcast.
I can still hear the crack. My head hit the sidewalk so hard that my brothers and sisters still talk about it. I was rollerskating on concrete, lost my balance, and fell backward. I don't remember anything else but the sound. I was konked out. My mother did all the things you were supposed to do in 1962. She called the pediatrician, who came to the house and looked at me and told to stay on the sofa so my mom could keep an eye on me. As long as I didn't throw up or drift into a deep sleep, the doctor thought I would be OK. That's the way we did things before X-rays, CT scans, and other tests.
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