Sunday, Nov. 24, 1963

I remember only a couple of times when I saw my granddad excited in a way that will be hard for many people to understand.
He had spent much of his career as a newspaperman, and decades after last typing “30” at the bottom of a piece of copy on deadline, he still felt an adrenaline rush when a big story broke.
On Sunday, Nov. 24, 1963, I was sitting around the swimming pool at a motel on South Padre Island, reading a copy of True, a long-since defunct men’s adventure magazine.
Granddad, portly but still in pretty good shape for a man of 66, shot out of our motel room and yelled: “Somebody just filled Oswald full of lead!”
Only in the ninth grade, and cool as I thought I was, I didn’t get it.
“What?” I asked.
“Somebody just shot Oswald!”
At the time, I did not comprehend exactly how Granddad felt, but I do now.
He had been a reporter and editor in the Fort Worth-Dallas

 

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