Copyright 2012 by
Jackson Jackson had had a good day. He and his wife had been to a barbecue at his best friend Big Lou Casey’s ranch up in Hickory Ridge, a huge spread off of Route 49. They were all having a good time, drinking iced Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, watching the steaks sizzle on the two large grills Big Lou had set out in the yard, and engaging in a good-natured horse shoe contest.
Then Big Lou’s wife Thelma had come trotting out of the house, one hand holding her bonnet to her head, the other gingerly grasping her throat. Her announcement that the president had been shot effectively ended the party as people wandered away to their cars and trucks, stunned.
Jackson had grabbed a couple of beers and loaded his wife into the truck and headed toward home, which was the little town of Fargo, about five miles north of the junction at Interstate 40. He didn’t really give a damn about Kennedy. He hadn’t voted for the SOB, but then again, he’d never voted for anybody. Politics was for other folks.