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The sixties rose out of the fifties with so much hope. Eisenhouer was
gone. Kennedy was now. Wrestling was real. The Leafs were winning
Stanley Cups. Television was a series of comedies about white kids in
the suburbs with skin problems. Or westerns about bounty hunters, and
Boot Hill, smart alec card shots. All men had jobs. And wives hung their
bedsheets out on clothes lines. No one was raped. No one knew what rape
was. Or killing. Or starvation. Except my father. And he didn’t talk
about the War. .
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