It was February of 1965. I was seven. My parents and I, and two of my sisters, had just piled into the station wagon that was parked in front of the church in Russellville, Kentucky, after my grandfather’s funeral.
I was climbing over the seat into the way back when it occurred to me. “Hey,” I said. “Pop never got to see Beth, did he?” My youngest sister had been born the previous September.
My mother turned around and raised her finger to her lips, saying, “Shhhhh,” just before the door opened and my grandmother got in the car.