The 13-year-old little girl sat by the old washing machine in her parents’ dark basement. She was hard at work globing red polish onto some worn-out black shoes that she wanted to wear with a special outfit. She heard her name being called by her Dad “Billie, Billie, come here…. something bad has happened.” My mother hurried up the stairs to her father, terribly frightened by what could be wrong. She awaited her father’s words. “The President of the United States is dead.” The date was November 22, 1963. It was Thanksgivin ....