By Birke Duncan
I was seven years old when Nixon resigned. Dad said, “The President looks sad, so we have to be nice to him.”
I used to imagine Nixon slouching past my house in Bellevue, Washington. I watched for him, but he never came.
A couple months later, I counted up my trick-or-treat candy. My mother called to my father: “Gene! Richard Nixon is at the door.”
My wish had come true. I ran down the hall to see the former President, but it wasn’t Nixon. It was a tall kid in a blue suit, a Nixon mask, and an open trick-or-treat bag.
Back in the day…