My childhood ended when I was fourteen, at 6:30 PM, June 21, 1954.
No Bar Mitzvah. No coming out party. No walk-a-bout. No woman. No nothing.
It happened at our home in West Norwalk, Connecticut. We were sitting at our kitchen table waiting for Mom to serve up the macaroni cheese casserole and salad greens. My father leaned over the table toward me like he had something special to say.