When people go on a vacation, they often have an iconic destination in mind. Disneyland, the Eiffel Tower, and the Grand Canyon spring to mind as this type of larger-than-life target to point the ol’ minivan toward and shout “Onward, HO!”—or whatever one is wont to shout in such circumstance these days.
While Disneyland did hold a well-defined fascination for me as a boy, there weren’t that many tourist targets I wanted to visit so badly I’d spend over a dozen hours in the car, patiently building anticipation by watching mileage signs and billboards dot an endless highway toward a mythic respite. Plus, I’d need someone to do the driving which could be problematic when you are ten.
But ever since I was a youngster, knee-high to a tadpole, I have always wanted to visit Dealey Plaza in Dallas, Texas. I know . . . not exactly The White House or even San Francisco’s famed Fisherman’s Wharf in terms of overall vacation appeal. But ever since the tragic events of November 22, 1963 my heart and mind were always drawn to the little strip of roadway in downtown Dallas where President John F. Kennedy was murdered.