In 1949 my parents moved from the small town of East Point, Georgia to a quiet, tree-lined street in the northwest section of Atlanta. There we had wonderful neighbors who became our close friends and with whom we shared life’s joys and sorrows. I could – and probably should – write a book about growing up in that neighborhood during the 1950s and 1960s. Until then, suffice it to say that, according to today’s child safety experts, I was killed or seriously maimed approximately 4,279 times before reaching adolescence. The boys on our block played with bows and arrows, knives,...