 Saturday, August 11, 1934, was etched permanently in John Laronde’s mind. It had begun as any other, with no premonition of the terror waiting at his office. He dallied over his breakfast, savored a second cup of coffee, and had his usual morning chat with his lovely Ruth and their beloved daughter, Helen, in the cool, old-fashioned dining room of Windsong, their magnificent plantation manse. Typical in fine Southern homes built one hundred years earlier, a magnificent, hand-polished, mahogany ceiling punkah, or fly fan, hung lazily above the Louis XIV dining table. Sterling silver trays, chafing dishes, and incidental crystal pieces—gathered over many trips to... |
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