This is a real story, cut from the pages of my life.

The year was 1966. Sometime in early Spring, the phone rang. Mom answered as usual, and called to me, "Tommy, it's for you -- someone from the Veterans of Foreign Wars, in Washington, D.C."

I was 40 feet down the hall in my bedroom reading something, as usual. "Huh?" I came racing up the hall to the kitchen counter, where our only phone hung on the wall.

The biege handset was resting on the counter. Mom was already typing at her desk across the room. She typed, like my sister marisuewrites here at Hubpages does now, at about a million words per hour. The clatter was deafening, but she was too curious to leave the room. Dang the privacy, she wanted to know who was calling for her son, all the way from Washington, D.C.

I picked up the phone. "Hi, this is Tommy Bond," I explained, as if the caller wouldn't already know that.

"Hello Tommy, this is (I forget his name, sorry) the national president of the V.F.W. As you know, you entered the "Voice of Democracy" speech writing contest we sponsored, and now I'd like to inform you that you have won the contest for the entire State of New Mexico!"

There was a pause, while he let that sink in.

For once, I was totally speechless. So, he continued, "Now let me see here, there were 3,000 entrants in New Mexico, and it looks like you did it, you were selected by our judges to be the winner. There will be a cash prize for winning your state, plus a chance to win the national championship prize, which is $5,000.00."

Another pause. This time I did manage to say "Wow, thanks!" But I still didn't know exactly what I'd won. Obviously, this wasn't to be just another brass and plastic trophy, or another fancy certificate with a blue ribbon glued to it.

"Now, I'm happy to tell you that we'll be flying you to the national convention in March for 7 days. You will be introduced to your Senator's and Congressmen for New Mexico, and you'll meet with the Vice President of the United States, as well as many other governmental leaders. The V.F.W. will reserve a room for you at one of Washington's best hotels, the Shoreham, and for a whole week, we will give you and the other State Winners a guided tour of the Nation's Capitol, including the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial, The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, the Smithsonian, the Lincoln Monument, the White House, the FBI building, the Voice of America, the National Gallery of Art, the National Space Museum, and many other famous attractions. You'll spend a day visiting colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, and travel to see Independence Hall in Pennsylvania. You will see Thomas Jefferson's home, Monticello, and George Washington's house as well. You will also eat dinner at the U.S. Navy Admiral's Club as the personal guest of Vice Admiral Lovett, and have lunch with your local Representative in the Congressional Cafeteria. There's more, but we'll leave that for later."

I was dumbfounded. By this time, Mom had her ear glued to the handset, so we could both hear things. No more of that machine-gun typing.

Again, more silence from my end.

"Well, naturally, we will pay all your expenses, including airfare, hotel, all meals, tips and so on. We'll give you some spending money so you can by whatever else you might need while you're there. All you need to do is pack some casual clothes for one week, and at least one dress suit or sports jacket, that's about it. We take it from there."

I gulped, "Golly, I don't know what to say. Thanks a bunch!"

"That's okay. You don't really have to thank me, you won the contest and you deserve it. You're a champion. Now, we'll send out a special delivery packet to you in a few days that will have your plane tickets, plus the agenda and a list of what to pack. Do you have any questions?"

I couldn't think of anything to say, again, so we hung up.. Somehow, the conversation ended. Mom hugged me.

I was going to Washington! For a whole week, too. I was seventeen, and wouldn't turn eighteen until May, well after the trip. At only 17 I was being flown to the Nation's Capitol, where I'd get to meet the Vice President of the United States, and tons of other famous people and all the sights. Gee!

Well, when March 3rd finally came along, I awoke before dawn, and climbed aboard an early flight out of Alamogordo. It droned and buzzed down to El Paso, where I ran to my first class seat on a big non-stop jet to Washington, D.C.

Two VFW guys with their funny hats met me at Dulles Airport, and walked me to a waiting limousine to the Shoreham. I arrived just in time to be ushered down to the hotel's menswear store, for a quick fitting of a burgundy blazer with the big VFW logo on its breast pocket. Guess they didn't want anyone to miss the fact that they were paying for all of this. I didn't complain.

With the new sport coat on, it was off to a "cocktail reception" in the lounge.

Of course, there was no liquor served, but it WAS a lounge, okay?

When I walked in the door wearing the new burgundy blazer, I walked right into the great "schnozzola" himself, Jimmy Durante, singing "Deek, ah-deek, ah-do!" He was at his favorite post, an upright piano, pounding on the keys and shaking his head to the rhythm, just as he'd done for decades before.

I'd arrived.

Well, I won't bore you with all the details of the escorted trip around our Capitol. But, here are a couple highlights:

THE NATIONAL GALLERY OF ART

We were told we'd see the famous painting, "The Mona Lisa." Sure enough we did. It was there on tour from France, hanging on a greenish gray wall highlighted with a track-light from way up high.

There was a black rope about ten feet or so from the painting, but there wasn't much of a crowd. As the previous group walked away, I was left with only a few people, each of them gazing silently or murmuring to a friend. After perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, only two people were left. Just myself and one other guy.

He was a smallish or average sized fellow, quite thin, standing maybe three feet away to my left. His gaze never left the smiling model's face. I noticed that his arms were crossed over his chest, and one forearm extended up to nestle his chin, which he very slowly stroked with one finger... head just barely cocked to one side to accommodate the gesture.

I looked again at him over a few minutes. There was something about this guy. Something familiar. We stood there together, alone. Just us and the Mona Lisa. I inventoried his attributes -- jeans, white sneakers, a solid blue light weight wind-breaker, plaid shirt, no tie, dark loosely combed thinning hair, small glasses.

Finally, he turned and looked at me. He nodded once, down about half an inch and back up. Then he caught my eyes and shot me a very small, quick smile. The mysterious figure ambled past me away into the shadows of the museum, I swiveled back to the eternally wistful gaze of the alluring Mona. But, my thoughts were not on her. I'd nailed him...

I had spent a silent half-hour with the ""bombing efficiency expert" for Gen. Curtis Lemay in WWII, the creator of the doomed Edsel for the Ford Motor Company and the Secretary of Defense for Presidents Kennedy and Johnson -- the infamous Robert Strange McNamara -- the father of the Vietnam War.

I'd never said a word to him. Not a syllable.They are always so much smaller in real life.

In years to come, Robert McNamara learned to regret his early enthusiasm for bombing North Vietnam. His differences with President Lyndon Johnson grew to an stalemate. On November 29th of 1967 -- a year before the LBJ administration came to its end due to the election of Richard Nixon who "had a plan" to end the War, Bob McNamara announced that he would resign his post as Secretary of Defense and assume the position of Chairman of the World Bank. This new job, to which he had been appointed by LBJ, was arguably the most important, if not the most celebrated, job in the world. McNamara held that job for 13 years, until his retirement in 1981.

THE ADMIRAL'S BUDDY

They took us around the city in a big shiny bus. Super comfortable and extra long to accommodate all 53 of us "champions." Our tour guide for the whole week was Admiral Lovett, who sat opposite me at the front of the bus. We were seated alphabetically by last name; so Bond got me a seat with a view, and soon, with a buddy.

The Admiral and I became fast friends. He entertained me on rainy, wind swept hours with stories from World War II, when he was a special attache to Prime Minister Winston Churchill. He put me there in London, playing checkers with the cigar-smoking author of "We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender!"

Lovett was a white-haired portly fellow who'd seen better years, but he was hard to keep up with, as he marched down endless sidewalks around the city, showing us the sites and fueling my imagination with dozens of stories of the war years in a bunker under the streets of London. Years spent with one of the giants of modern history.

Occasionally, he'd throw an arm around my shoulders as we raced toward our next monument, the other hand shooting straight into the air, fingers splayed out as he recounted wartime exploits. For those moments, Lovett was no longer in Washington with some kids. He was walking with a drinking buddy in wartime England, dodging buzz bombs and chasing British skirts. He was drinking warm beer with Brits and singing "Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me." He was rushing into a concrete basement. As the ceiling shuddered overhead, lights swinging violently with the pounding blasts for days on end, he was choosing black or red checkers against Winston.

So it was -- for seven days in March of 1966 -- I myself was back in the Second World War. Even though I'd never seen a day on earth until the war was only a memory, for those few days I was just one man removed from Winston S. Churchill.

VICE PRESIDENT HUBERT HORATIO HUMPHREY

Hubert H. Humphrey was known as one of the co-founders of the Americans for Democratic Action and was a leader of the Council on Foreign Relations. He was established as one of the most liberal of all the leaders in Washington. For years he had either opposed, or resisted the temptation to fully endorse the War in Vietnam. He was famously an independent thinker. His roots in liberalism went deep. He was raised on the mother's milk of a moderate flavor or American socialism. He founded the very left-oriented Minnesota Democratic Farmer-Labor Party. He was twice elected Senator from Minnesota, and in 1964 was elected Vice President under President Lyndon B. Johnson. As a young politician, Humphrey had been an early leader for the civil rights movement and a strong supporter of organized labor and unions. I had followed his career through the late 1950s and early 1960's. He was a rising star in American politics.

As the next-to-the-last day of our tour of Washington approached, we all waited with great anticipation the night's formal awards dinner where the national "Voice of Democracy" winner would be finally announced and national scholarship cash prizes awarded to several of us State champs.

And, we'd all get to hear Vice President Humphrey, and get our picture taken with him after the event.

In one great hall, over 2,000 VFW leaders would be assembled for steaks and the side dishes to hear most of the country's leaders (with the exception of LBJ himself). Across the front stage was stretched two long rows of tables, raised above the audience. Closest to the audience were all 53 of us State Winners, arranged alphabetically by the name of our state. Since mine was New Mexico, I was seated directly in front of the podium. I could turn around 180-degrees and would be looking directly into the eyes of the speaker, from about 3 feet away. Talk about the best seat in the house!

Behind us stretched a long row of nationally super-famous dignitaries. The big-time politicians sat toward the center, and the merely famous singers, actors and so on sat toward each end. In the middle a seat was saved for Vice President Humphrey. On the other side of the podium was Everett Dirkson, the Majority Leader of the Senate. To his left was Secretary of State Dean Rusk. Other men of lesser social standing were spaced off towards each end of the row. Overall, you couldn't imagine a more powerful gathering of national leaders outside of a State of the Union address. Everyone was going to be at this shindig except one man -- the President.

EVERETT DIRKSON

The venerable Senator from Illinois began the festivities, soon after most of the dinner had been eaten and the glass clinking and dish chattering was over. The great leader of the Senate slowly rose from his seat. His movement, which I could see in great detail by pivoting to look over my right shoulder, was extremely deliberate, each slight arrangement of a limb was carefully extended and put in place, then a bit of weight was gradually devoted to it and leverage gradually elevated the man's huge, deeply lined face over the top of the lectern. As he leaned on the slanted surface with one hand, the crowd became totally, completely, utterly silent. You could have heard a cockroach clear his throat from the back of the auditorium -- had there been a cockroach, and had he been foolish enough to do so.

Dirkson methodically raised his other hand from its death-grip on the podium edge to reach into his suit-coat inside pocket. He removed from that pocket a sheaf of papers that had been folded and tightly creased. He licked his lips with great precision, each in turn; first the top lip, then the bottom. The old tongue started in the corner of Dirkson's huge, curved maw and steadily worked its way across to the other corner. Then the same action was repeated for the bottom lip. First the corner, then across the middle, finally ending at the opposing corner. Deep creases extended from each corner up to the distended nose of the Majority Leader, and back down to the jaw line.

Everett Dirkson had still never looked out at the audience. He was immersed in preparing to deliver what would -- obviously -- be a great speech. We were all going to hear something we would never, ever going to forget. We would tell our children about this speech. They would in turn tell their children. We ourselves would become a legend, just for having been present to hear his speech in person.

Nobody made a sound across the great hall. No chair was moved. No ice rattled in a glass. Not a napkin was folded.

Now the beloved leader began to unfold the sheaf of papers on which he'd written his forthcoming, history making, epoch generating pronouncement. We knew it was coming soon!

Then he began to count the pages, lifting one off the other, glancing through them. Then his long eyebrows jumped with sudden inspiration. His mouth, which had been hanging open during this entire presentation, slammed shut with an audible "plop!"

One of his giant, speckled hands lifted off the top of the podium to run down the stack of papers, then was elevated to reach into the outside top pocket of his suit-coat, where he removed a small pair of reading glasses to fit them across the wide bulb of his nose.

Now that he could fully read the contents of the oration, he again lifted the pages one by one. This time he moved with increasing speed and confidence, scanning each page in its turn.

Now the great spacious room was so fully quiet that it was obvious that everyone had completely stopped breathing.

Not a single back was pressed against a seat. The entire audience was leaning towards the beloved patriarch, sitting on the front edge of each seat.

Four thousand eyes were riveted at those dancing, furry eyebrows.

All 53 of my State Champion speakers were swiveled to watch the greatest speech of their young lives.

Not one eye blinked.

Not one person moved, not even a finger.

Dirkson's head suddenly raised to see the audience.

The audience reacted as one, as if a great invisible orchestra conductor had used his baton. A thunderous applause filled the room. The assembled veterans were telling the Majority Leader how happy they were that he was looking at them, how pleased they were that he would soon begin the speech that they would tell others about for decades to come -- until they themselves finally were no longer able to remember.

Now the time had come for THE SPEECH.

And it began.

"My friends, it's a great pleasure to be here tonight." His voice was the voice we all knew so well. Deep, rich, resonant. The vibrant melody of his words bounced off our tables, the walls, and back to the tables again. His droopy watery eyes penetrated into the far reaches of the auditorium, meeting each eye present, none of which had blinked for at least a quarter hour, or so it seemed.

"And your welcome reminds me of a story..."

"You know, many of you I'm sure, that I grew up on a farm near the Great Lakes, in Illinois." He looked down at his notes as if to refresh his memory...

"And the cold winter mornings were really something in those days, the blue norther winds whipping across the Lakes, drawing lines of ice across the fences and trees. The early pre-dawn light was a deep blue, as I'd make my way, leaning into the bitter bone chilling gale, and pulling my coat around up close around the neck, placing each mitten covered hand under my arms to keep them warm in the long dark walk to the barn."

"When finally I got there and opened the barn door quickly, then slammed it back shut again," he glanced down at his notes again and turned a page.

"There was old Bessie, waiting as usual, chewing her feed like a good ol' girl." He looked out into the front-most eyes, evaluating the effect on each veteran in turn.

"I'd pull up an upside down pail next to her to sit on, looking at her swollen udder with those long, pink teats hanging down the way they do," he nodded his enormous head up and down, looking around the room to the left and right.

Two thousand heads slowly echoed his movement solemnly, up and down, up and down. Just a bit, but we could all see it from where I sat. Each head would raise then lower, raise then lower. There was rapt, hypnotic attention.

Now old Everett's pace picked up. If he had been a snail, now he was a turtle. Practically racing.

"I'd remove my warm woolen mittens one at a time, shove them inside my sweater where they'd stay nice and cozy, and grab those teats with each hand, pointing the streams right into that milk bucket."

His eyes never left the rapt audience.

"Shsssssst, shsssssst -- shssssst, shsssssst" he intoned. "Suddenly ol' Bessie's udder began to fill the bucket."

"And, about that time..." he paused.

"And about that time, old Bessie would turn around and look right at me, and say..."

Again he paused.

"Thanks." he stood up tall, like a much younger man, and he smiled broadly that famous Everett Dirkson smile.

"Thanks for the warm hand!"

The 2,000 battle scarred and war-torn veterans exploded into applause and jumped to their feet. There it was, the speech! Laughter, knee slapping and guffaws filled the great hall and bounced off distant walls. Everett Dirkson had given them the story they'd tell for the rest of their lives.

Look at me. I'm still telling it, too. More than four decades after that great night. I remember it all.

As we all returned to our seats and readjusted our chairs, Everett put away his sheaf of notes and his reading glasses. As the audience howled, he smiled a little private grin, aimed somewhere at the corners of the lectern.

THREE WORDS FROM HUMPHREY

And finally, just at the very moment that the room returned to calm, the great Majority Leader of the Senate leaned back and hurled in a great booming baritone, "Now its my great pleasure and high honor to introduce to you all, the man of the evening, Vice President of the United States of America, Hubert H. Humphrey!"

A spotlight came from nowhere suddenly over Dirkson's large head, pointing back at the far rear wall of the great hall. Two large doors exploded open and banged loudly against the back wall. The band began to play stirring music as the beaming Vice President of the United States literally ran down the center isle toward the stage, waving to the left and right.

The audience burst into cheers above the raging band music and applause, as Humphrey brushed hands with all along his half of the long table leading to the podium.

He reached the podium and grabbed each side tightly, boosting himself up another couple of inches with sheer willpower and brute force.

From his new height, Humphrey began to speak, his eyes darting like searchlights out into the darkened audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there are three words, three words, three words I'd like to say to you tonight," he paused dramatically. His high pitched, resonant, precise diction bounced like armor piercing shells through the ranks of the delegates.

"And those three words are..." he scanned the room with his head tiled back to the center of the ceiling.

"Victory! Victory! Victory... in Vietnam!" He grimaced and frowned, aiming at the enemy.

A riot erupted from left to right, front to back. Every veteran literally jumped to their feet, chairs flung behind them, tables rocked with clattering dishes and tumbling glasses. Hands were raised with tumultuous, rabid slapping of palms. Arms were clapping over a see of bouncing heads in glee. "Bravo, bravo, bravo!" filled the air.

In utter amazement at this shocking public reversal by the Vice President, I turned completely around in my seat to look the little man from Minnesota directly in the eyes across the lectern that rose between us. Humphrey's scowl had turned into a full grin, as he raised his arms in the air to receive the audience's enthusiasm.

I slowly began to clap myself, largely out embarrassment as I realized that I was sitting directly below the speaker, in full view of everyone there. The line of famous entertainers and national leaders to Humphrey's left and right rose to their feet as one to join the erupting, wild melee before us.

I also rose to my feet, glancing over my shoulder back the mob behind me. I didn't want to be the ONLY one in the room not standing to support Humphrey's dramatic policy shift, as he fell into line with his administration's prosecution of the unpopular Vietnam War.

CALM IN THE STORM FROM DEAN RUSK

But as I viewed the lineup on the row above me, I found that I hadn't actually been alone in my reluctance to rise and applaud Humphrey's great flip-flop.

The last man to stand and the weakest hand-clapping in the room was from the dignified Secretary of State, Mr. Dean Rusk. He finally arose, calmly scanning the unruly crowd and then turning to look at the shorter speaker, standing to his immediate right, only two feet or so from his seat.

And, as soon as the standing-ovation began to subside, many minutes later, the tall, elegant Rusk was the first to resume his seat, folding his hands over crossed legs. He looked for all the world like a great movie producer, instead of a politician. He was cool and detached, entirely unconnected to the thick emotion that swept through the hall.

As I slowly returned into my own seat, I studied the contrast between Rusk and the rest of the clapping, grinning politicians on the dais. There was an erie, otherworldly, almost spiritual gulf that separated Dean Rusk from everyone else in the room.

It was as if WE were all puppets, being controlled by long strings leading off-stage to some invisible puppet master. One man present knew that master quite well, I thought to myself silently as I watched Rusk purse his unsmiling lips to look over at Humphrey.

One man seemed to be in charge, and it wasn't Hubert Humphrey, nor any other the men who'd later speak to us that night.

One man seemed to be pulling our strings. It was he who was the last to stand and the first to retake his seat.

From my spot only a few feet away, the deliberate power Rusk exuded, over himself and the whole room, so it seemed to me, was palpable. And frightening.

In later years, Dean Rusk was to be appointed the Chairman of the super powerful and incredibly well financed Rockefeller Foundation. He had previously been a director of the foundation, through the 1950's until his appointment to be Secretary of State by President John F. Kennedy in 1961. As the leader of the prestigious Rockefeller fund, he was perhaps then one of the most powerful, if not the most celebrated, of all the men in the world. Rusk was to be in charge of dispensing many billions in aid and monetary support for almost every economy on the planet. For several more years after leaving public life, Dean Rusk pulled strings offstage.

In politics, I began to learn that night, there is public authority, but there is also true power. One man almost never is given both.

Dean Rusk had power. He left "authority" for lesser men. The men who filled the dais and who played their role in public life, dancing to rhythms from people offstage, people at the OTHER end of their strings.

There were obviously no strings on Dean Rusk.

Chills went down my back, as I turned away from him, preferring the madness before me to the power behind me.

BACK TO H.H.H.

That night the worm had turned. The last major obstacle of resistance to expanding the War in Vietnam had fallen."Victory, victory," Humphrey had exclaimed, "Victory in Vietnam!"

In years hence, following that first announcement of Humphrey's support for the War, Hubert was to regret deeply his sudden and all-too-public change of heart. He claimed to have been fooled by a CIA lie about the Bay of Tonkin attack, and said that he had been, like so many others, duped by LBJ.

However much he may have later preferred to take back his war endorsement, Humphrey's speech was certainly a memorable, history making moment. A moment I will never forget.

THE BEST MOMENT OF THE NIGHT

But, the one speech that I will most fondly remember of that amazing night was the perfect presentation of Senator Everett C. Dirkson, the much loved older statesman, the Republican of Illinois.

That man knew how to tell a story. He knew things about an audience that you could never put in writing. He knew how to reach into their souls. Dirkson didn't write or read his speech, he WAS the speech.

Everett C. Dirkson was a GIANT among merely giants.

WINNING

And oh, did I win the national prize? Everybody thought I was going to, since the Admiral seemed to have adopted me as his pet.

But I didn't even place in the top three that night. Of course there were no real losers, really, among the 53 of us who spent that week in Washington.

We may not have won the prize that night. But each of us, even those of us who didn't take home yet another trophy or a fat scholarship check... all 53 of us had watched history being made, inches from major actors on the world stage.

It had been an amazing night.

A night and a week to remember.