Suburban Chicago, December 24, 1966. I squeal with delight as I open a gift from my Godmother. It's a child-sized, zippered, red suitcase. She probably gave it to me because our family was about to make its first summer trip to Glacier National Park. We traveled to Glacier based on my Godmother's recommendation, and she and her family joined us in Montana for part of our vacation. My Godmother's father sits behind us.
The little red suitcase lives on. We use it to pack books and magazines when we take road trips.
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