The summer of 1957 was scorching. I had just turned nineteen. I worked on one of my motorcycles until mid-afternoon, then decided to take a quick ride on my 125cc Harley to cool off. I wore only a pair of moccasins and my gym shorts—no shirt, helmet, or jock strap under my thin shorts. I didn’t expect to be gone for long, so I didn’t tell Mom I was leaving. Mom and I live in a modest bungalow in a small West Texas town. D...