Where do I begin. I was 13, up north. We were waiting for my grandparents to come up from Maryland. My dad asked them to leave a day early because of the tension in the city. The day early was to be used so they could drive up 23 instead of I-75. Extra day of travel time. I was waiting all day in the driveway of our cabin, expecting them to pull up any minute. Instead the State Police pull up. They asked to talk to my parents. They informed us that my grandparents had an accident outside of Bethesda . No one could reach us. No phones by our lake yet. We were asked to go into town and call the hospital. My aunt said we should come down ASAP. My grandma in critical condition. We went back to our home, packed and flew [[ my first plane ride) to D.C [[ Dulles). Only plane available on short notice. My grandma died August 1, 1967 from the injuries. In a strange and tragic way, I was deeply affected by the Detroit Riots. My family never got over it.