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 When Connie Henke was 12 years old, she saw a movie in a room that no longer exists. Its walls are now pulp, the floor an even spread of gravel, the stage a pile of rubble.
Only the bricks remain — alongside the memories. Those are going to last, foundation or otherwise. Most certainly the ones about James Bond and the antics of prepubescence.
“Boys would take their straws and pea shooters and sit in the back row, blow them at the back of girl’s heads,” Connie reminisces. She’s been doing that a lot lately, quietly or boisterously, in a weekly walk and talk group she started years ago. So many memories stacked neatly into four walls that came down one day; they need to be shared. Like the one when she saw her first movie — 007’s Dr. No. “Auburn Avenue was a destination,” she continues,” it was cool to go to the movies. To feel like a grownup.”
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