This column first appeared on HuffingtonPost.com. Comments not included here.
Forty years ago my family was taking its annual vacation, which in the summer of 1968 was a trip to the Democratic National Convention, where my father was an Arkansas delegate. We loaded up our station wagon, as we always did for our summer road trips across the USA, and my parents, Bill and Bobbye, drove us from Batesville, Arkansas to Chicago. Once there, we checked into the Palmer House, which we made our headquarters to enjoy the city, attend the convention, and stay out of the way of the violent clashes between protestors and police. Bill and Bobbye weren’t going to let their children get close enough to get their heads bashed in. We were there to elect and support the next Democratic presidential nominee and have some fun.
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