The event written in the following words happened in 1959–1960. I was a junior at Seminole High School in Sanford, Florida. I was the fourth generation being raised on the old family property that was homestead by my great-grandfather and my great-grandmother not long after the Civil War. His son, my grandfather, was a part-time Methodist preacher. My mother was a registered nurse who served in New Caledonia during World War II. I was working on the gate at the cow pen on the pond side of the road. My father was somewhat a taciturn man. He didn’t say much, which was typical for a man who had been in both Europe and Panama in World War II and survived the Great Depression. His mother had perfected the art of taking cornmeal, a little grease, some water, lots of hope, and made a meal fit for a king. This is …