That Bad Good Friday
IT BEGAN AS SUCH A happy day, Good Friday one year ago. The snow which had been coming down for two days let up, which meant that my husband, Lowell, could fly to Fairbanks and get back to Anchorage in time for us to have all of Easter weekend together.
The children and I waved goodbye as he drove off to the airport, then shut the door quickly because it was still below freezing outside. About five o’clock, feeling lonesome for him, Anne, eight, David, six, and I went upstairs to watch TV. Anne and David were wearing blue jeans and cotton Tshirts; I had on a wool dress and nylon stockings. We took off our shoes so we could sit on the bed.
It was half an hour later that I heard a rumbling sound. Although we frequently hear a similar roaring—the firing of guns at a nearby Army
