Where was I? We all remember. Nov. 22, 1963, would leave an indelible mark on a buzz-cut blond 10-year-old boy who liked nothing better than to read history and imagine what it was like to live during a major world-changing event. I would learn, this day.
It was a bright fall morning in our unfinished California suburb, but not typical. Our school had chosen this Friday for parent-teacher conferences, and so we could enjoy a carefree day of freedom. I spent most of the morning behind our house, at the bottom of a weedy embankment, with Jordan, my best friend and next-door neighbor, building a “fort” out of scrap lumber we salvaged from the trash piles near the half-finished houses that dotted the neighborhood.