I am so old that I remember how odd it was to write 1970 on my school papers instead of 1969.
Half a century ago.
The previous summer I had watched, live, as Neil Armstrong stepped onto the moon.
Even earlier: one of my earliest memories was everyone crying about something on the radio. It was November 22, 1963.
When I was born, Dwight David “Ike” Eisenhower was President of the United States. There have been 11 more since then.
My maternal grandfather was born in a tiny village outside (then) Berlin (the village itself was absorbed by the city long ago.) That was in 1880, 140 years ago.
In 1630 or thereabouts, three brothers named Canfield were well-known businessmen in New Haven Connecticut.
In 1066 a chap with the last name Campfield (he was Belgian so I don’t know where that spelling came from) crossed over from Europe with William the (Soon to Be) Conqueror.
This history lesson (?) brought to you by the numbers “2” and “0” and the letters j, d, and c.
I promise not to make an issue of it, but the new decade doesn’t start until 2021. Decades start with 1, end with 10, rather than starting with 0, ending with 9.