Fifty years ago, after my honorable discharge from the US Air Force, I had a job as a bus driver at Pringle Independent School District, which was located in a shit-hole of a tiny town in the table-top-flat wilds of the Texas Panhandle, sixty-six miles north of Amarillo. I saw on TV the awful news of the murder of John F. Kennedy, and in numbed shock I went to the flagpole in front of the administration building and was drawing the flag down to half mast. The superintentent of schools, a fat, red-necked guy named Lummie Porter, called out to me.
"Whut you doin', boy?"
I replied I was honoring the falling of the Commander in Chief.
He sneered. "Put that flag back up, right NOW."
"'Cuzz 'round here, Yankee, we have no truck for that worthless commie bastard."