It was 1957,
Christmastime. Elvis was my favorite singer. And Christmas was my favorite
holiday—except for this year. Daddy’s job with the Santa Fe railroad had moved
our family—Daddy, Mother, my two younger sisters and me—from our small, friendly
town in Kansas to a strange, dusty town in the southwestern desert.
Instead of celebrating a white Christmas with the typical warm and fuzzy
sights, sounds and smells I had known each year at Grandma and Grandpa’s big
festively decorated house, I was thrown into a strange brown land with
neighborhoods of small row houses near the train tracks and neighbors who spoke
little English.