It was over forty years ago, in the middle of December 1963, when my aging father retired from the Navy. He was only 37 years old at the time, but to a nine-year-old that sounded pretty old!
He and mom packed us into the car and we moved from Norfolk, Virginia, back to our native California, taking the old Highway 66, a two-lane highway that could really cause motion sickness at times!
Dad made sure we stopped at important places from the sights of Washington DC to the austere majesty of mountainous Silver City, New Mexico, which is where our family settled after we crossed the Mexican border in 1910.
The stop I remember best lasted only a few minutes. My father stopped the car in the middle of Dallas and pointed to a window on the sixth floor of the Texas Book Depository. Less than …