I remember how the air smelled, of eucalyptus and the Pacific. I was sitting under green corrugated fiberglass panels in an open-air classroom a mile from Santa Monica beach when President Kennedy got shot in the head and neck. Dallas was my hometown, and I started fourth grade back at the scene of that crime. A year later, we moved again, this time to New Hampshire.
But who could forget the Pacific Ocean? I returned to it as a teenager, riding my thumb out of New England in the late sixties, when all the young dudes were on the road.
