Well, I was 8 then, too small to know what was going on.
23 February 1981. Spain.
I do remember some things though: a few days before the coup my next door neighbour and best friend commenting how glad his dad would be that the president Mr Suarez had resigned, after seeing the tv news; and then, on the fateful day, 23 February, while I was doing the day's homework at the table in our room, while the dusk gathered in outside and the village went dark, I was somewhat distracted by the noises coming from the other end of the flat: doorbells ringing, the doors themselves being opened, slammed even, voices in the background, worried voices of the grownups, then the phone ringing, then, after my mom's vague explanations and a bite to eat, the long night: all kind of people coming to our flat, a syndicalist's flat, the flat of a socialist who was running for the next elections with the local council, and the confusion of tobacco smoke, whispers and beards that came from the living room, where all those people that I vaguely remembered from the school's parents association, neighbours, people from the city 6 kms away, workmates of my dad's and acquantainces in general, were talking of passports and who knows what else.
We, the kids, went to bed, and the next day was, seemingly, a day like any other. The school bus was waiting for us, the day was just your average midwinter day and everything looked normal, except for the faces of the grownups.