I was startled to hear knocking on our front door early that September morning in 1965. It was Sunday. I was enjoying a bowl of Sugar Frosted Flakes and turning the TV dial looking for cartoons instead of religious programming.
I opened the door and saw Ricky Delgado standing on our porch, an expression on his face I hadn’t seen since we’d snuck away to a local carnival so he could ride The Hammer. Ricky looked nervous.
“Did your folks come home last night?” he asked, his voice thick with concern.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t they?”
What happened next I'll never forget. Read about it (here).