Forget the Arrow of Time and the Grandfather Paradox
If I had a time machine, I’d head back in time to Southern California, arriving on February 20, 1944, at Burbank airport near of Los Angles, where a young Army Air Force pilot in the newly-minted 436th Fighter Squadron, is about to give a pretty girl a ride in a P-38. The pilot is my dad, Jim. The pretty girl is…
