We were married in November ‘80–some gave us six months, others figured there’d be a baby before June—and it being the tail end of the seventies we had no money for a honeymoon for four months. So come March we went to that Niagara Falls of the West, San Francisco, and on the train, the sole evidence of which is this shot. Beautiful trip. Back in those pre-internet, pre-cell phone days a trip on a train was good as being sealed up in a time capsule for a few hours, nothing leaked in or out. But somehow, word came that the president had been shot. It came in whispers and snatches of conversation from coach to coach, stranger to stranger, President Reagan has been shot, and passed on to the next car. That’s all there was, just that one line of news. Was he dead? No idea. We just sat and watched the scenery pass by.