I read a lot of magazines, most of them by subscription. Leta finds this really amusing, especially when we come back from vacation and I have to bring a shopping bag to the post office to pick up the week's worth of mail they've been holding for me.
Many of the magazines I read have a "50 years ago" column or some such, in which a little sliver of copy from bygone years is recycled into something that makes us realize what clever people or what dolts our predecessors were. The current American Theatre has a paragraph about the first American performances of Waiting for Godot; a recent Scientific American noted that man-made satellites were imminent.
Each of these columns is headed with the month and year of the past news item, thus, "January, 1956."
Now my mind seems hardwired to pick out the year of my birth out of a block of print, just like I can spy my name, the name of my alma mater, and those of the cities where I grew up. As if it were a bold-faced island of type in a sea of gray small print.
So for the next twelve months, 1956 will be jumping out at me from the cover of all these "50 years ago" columns. And it's already starting to freak me out.