In the spring of 1975 Rolling Stone magazine published an article on the JFK assassination, and highlighted the work of Robert Groden on the clear copy of the Zapruder film. At the same time Groden appeared on Geraldo Rivera's television show and screened the film. I had toyed with an interest in the assassination for several years, but seeing that film on "Geraldo Rivera" that night, and reading that article in Rolling Stone did it for me. I wanted to know all about the JFK assassination.

So I walked over to the phone and called Rolling Stone's national office and asked the girl who answered for Robert Groden's phone number. She gave me his home number. Those were innocent days, the seventies.

I called Groden's number and his wife answered. She explained, very kindly, that he was not at home, (this was a Thursday) and that on Friday he would be at NYU in New York City, headlining a seminar on the JFK research. I thanked her, hung up and called American Airlines.

The next afternoon I walked into the NYU auditorium and saw a man at the podium who was giving a rousing, impassioned speech about how our own government, and the military, had lied to us about the assassination. His passion and manner impressed me. His speech ended, and Groden eventually came on and knocked us all out with his presentation.

Afterward I lingered in the hall outside where the man whose impassioned speech had impressed me was talking with a small group of students. The crowd soon thinned, and I met Penn Jones, Jr. He was a warm and gracious man, very patient and tolerant of someone who knew virtually nothing about a subject he had lived since 1963. We only talked for 10 minutes or so, but I told him I was an ex-Texan and came back to the state regularly, so he invited me to visit him if I was going to be in his area. I bought a book of his, and picked up a flyer offering more of his work.

A month or so went by, and my obsession (by then it was clearly becoming that) with this subject was growing rapidly. One problem I faced in those days, though, was no one else (that I knew) shared my interest. I really wanted to discuss this with someone. So one night, with the nerve of youth, I called Penn Jones. It was early evening, just after dinner, and Penn himself answered the phone. He didn't remember me, of course, but he was so very gracious and nice to me. He was relaxed (he told me in that conversation that he was enjoying a favorite Bourbon, and he would be happy to talk with me) and so we talked that night for almost an hour.

That conversation changed my life.

I make that statement flatly, because I know myself, and if Penn had been rude or dismissive, instead of kind and encouraging, I would have soon lost my passion for this case, and would have doubtless just read an occasional book about it over the years. Instead, because of his welcome, I have had experiences enough for two lifetimes with some wonderful people I might have never known, and of course, also have a decent understanding of this area of research.

Just before we hung up that night, Penn invited me to come and visit him. I promised him I would, and in June of that year (1975) a girl friend and I did just that. We spent two days in Dallas, and met with Penn twice. He was wonderful to us, took us on "the tour", told us countless stories. That was our first day in Dallas. The second day when I called him he invited us to come to Midlothian and visit with him in his home. We drove there that morning, and came to Penn's large, white, two story wooden house situated on a corner near downtown Midlothian. Midlothian, in those years (I have not been there in 15+ years) had basically two downtown streets. Penn lived about 4 blocks from Main Street.

At the Jones home that morning we met Louise Jones, or "L.A.", as everybody called her. She was Penn's wife of 30+ years, and a true delight. L.A. had a mischievous sense of humor that was truly infectious. She was so nice to us, and opened her home completely to two perfect strangers.

Before we left that day Penn encouraged me to come again in November, for the anniversary of the assassination. "You can't really get a feel for this thing until you've been here for that", he said to me that day. I promised him I would come.

That November we went to Dallas on the 21st. I called Penn late in the afternoon when we arrived, and he was excited, really high on the moment. He asked me to meet him and some other people at a restaurant near Dallas, and then promised me that we were going to be in for a special treat. I couldn't stand the suspense, and so pressed him about what he meant. He said we were going to go and visit "Mary Ferrell". Penn did not expect me to know that name, but I did. In those days only the truly initiated knew of Mary Ferrell, or the obsessed. I fell into the latter category, because in my obsession with this case I read every word of every book I could find about this subject. And in those days, in one case, and only one place, there was a tiny passing reference to a woman in Dallas who was at the center of the JFK research movement, and who had the largest collection of privately held JFK research material in the world at her house. It was housed behind her home in a special building built for just that collection by her husband, and guarded by fierce German Shepards. Her name was Mary Ferrell, and I definitely wanted to meet her.

That night Penn led us up the walk to the small wooden frame house on Holland Avenue in Oak Lawn near downtown Dallas. I was right behind Penn, and he stopped to respond to someone's question, so I actually knocked on the door first. It was a glass and iron security door, and the inner wooden door was open, allowing a view of the brightly lit living room. Forties dance music greeted us, and I could see through the door a tall, thin, balding man in his late sixties dressed in an expensive three piece suit, dancing with a much shorter, slender, dark haired woman who appeared to be in her forties. This was Michael H. B. Eddowes dancing with Mary Ferrell.

Welcome to the world of JFK assassination research.

Because of Penn I became great friends with both Michael Eddowes, a man who did some valuable early work on the JFK case, and Mary Ferrell. Mary has become my dearest friend, and has truly changed my life. What an incredible irony that Penn died within one day of Mary's dear husband, and my good friend, Buck Ferrell. Buck Ferrell was also Penn Jones' good friend, and they shared many a happy evening together, having a drink or two, talking and laughing.

That is really what I remember most about Penn, besides his passionate dedication to the search for the truth about JFK's assassination--his laughter. Penn was a man quick to laugh, and he had a highly developed sense of humor. Penn laughed with his whole body, his wide grin and beaming eyes shining with joy. He was good company.

Like many people who knew Penn, I have many stories about times we were together. He and L. A. came to Memphis once and stayed in my home. I slept in their home on occasions. I enjoyed a close association with Penn for 7 or 8 years, until unrelated events in each of our lives led to a time when we simply stopped seeing one another. It was amiable, just a slow dissolving of a once close friendship, a situation each of us has experienced many times in our lives. In my case, I entered the restaurant business, which is a full-time occupation if ever there was one. In Penn's, he met a young woman named Elaine Cavanaugh with whom he fell in love, resulting in a divorce from L.A., and a gradual retreat from his former life and many of his pursuits. As Penn grew older he began to suffer from Alzheimer's, and the last time I saw him, on a cold, clear day at the grassy knoll in Dealey Plaza one November 22, some 8 or 10 years ago, he struggled to remember me.

Oh, but I remember him.

I'll relate to you one last story which contains an incident that left me with an image, a memory of Penn that seared into my consciousness and remains what comes to my mind whenever I think of Penn Jones.

The year was 1976 or '77, and it was November 21st. By that time I had begun working closely with Mary Ferrell, assisting her with sorting and analyzing newly released documents, and so came to Dallas several times a year. I often took time to spend a day or two with Penn though, and this day I was at his house in Midlothian. It was just after lunch, a bright, clear day, maybe sixty degrees, and Penn asked if I would like to see his "farm". I certainly did want to, and we got into his old truck and headed toward Waxahatchie, Texas. That old truck of Penn's was just like him, weathered and weather-beaten, full of character and comfort.

We rode through Waxahatchie and on out into the country beyond, eventually traveling down a very narrow, dirt farm road. Our destination was Boyce, Texas. I don't imagine Boyce can be found on many maps, as I recall it there was only a small, perhaps 6 inch by 12 inch white wooden sign with the word "Boyce" on it to mark the area. There were a few scattered farm houses, but no commercial buildings. We turned down a road and traveled through empty fields until we came to a large barn on the right side of the road. Penn turned in, and announced that we were there. We got out of the truck and he explained that his land was everything on this side of the road for some distance, and quite a bit on the other side as well. We got back into the truck and he drove around the barn and headed out across a pasture. The land out there is gently rolling plains, windswept and lonely as only empty plains can be. There were occasional small stands of scrub or trees, but most of the land is open. We bumped along over it, looking at cows and calves, watching hawks watching us from their high perches in isolated trees, and buzzards falling in slow circles over distant pastures. Our destination was a small creek and a tree line at the bottom of a sloping incline of land; old gnarled oaks grew on either side of the smoothly flowing cold water.

Penn explained that this spot had once been a camping ground for the Commanche. He showed me arrowheads he said he found there, and we saw bits of pottery shard here and there. Penn told me how much he loved that spot, and we passed a happy hour or so.

When we came back out of that deep pasture, Penn offered to show me a farm house he owned where he said he one day wanted to retire. It was on the other side of the road, not far from the barn where we had entered the fields. We drove there, and got out and walked through the old farm house. It was a medium sized house, at that time in need of some repair, but clearly had the potential to be an attractive and comfortable place. Large trees grew around it, and there was an old barn or shed nearby. Also behind the house was a large pond, or lake. It was a pleasant spot, and Penn was very fond of it. As things turned out, it was the house he did retire to, after his second marriage, and where he lived until shortly before his death.

We returned to Midlothian late in the afternoon, and ate a quick supper with his wife, L.A. Our plans, as it was November 21st, were to drive into Fort Worth where Penn was invited to a party some JFK researchers he knew there were giving, then swing over to Dallas and spend a few hours at Mary's house.

It was late in the day and the sun was very low among scattered clouds on the horizon. In that part of Texas you can see the horizon from almost anywhere you are if the area is open. We climbed into Penn's old truck and headed for Fort Worth. We had been on the highway for maybe 20 minutes, when Penn suggested we stop and get some "Blue Bell" ice cream. He made it sound like something special, and I had never heard of it, so he explained about its quality. We pulled over and entered a small, rustic, family-run general store which had an ice cream counter at one end. Having purchased our ice cream, we moved off down the highway once more.

The sun was just about to set, and had been behind the low clouds near the horizon for a while. As we climbed a gentle grade up a hill on the highway, Penn, while eating an ice cream cone, was telling me a story which caused him break into a fit of laughter. Just as we topped the hill, and while he was really laughing, the sun, poised on the horizon, shot through a break in the clouds and a magical, golden-orange light filled the cab of the truck. I was looking right at Penn when this happened, and the image hit me with tremendous force. I knew instantly, that that was it. I was seeing Penn in his prime, at his happiest, and the image of him behind the wheel of that old truck, laughing, his face glowing with the patina of his character and years, was seared into my heart and mind as the Penn I would always remember.

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