THE PRESIDENCY by HUGH SIDEY: They Know When You Die

THERE was a quiet flurry on the morning of Lyndon Johnson's burial. A little more than might be expected for the normal funeral in and around Johnson City, Texas, but no hint of frenzy. Death is a part of life there. The people always gather when one of their own dies, drawn together by the profound humanness that gives these tiny clusters the strength to cling, generation after generation, in the wash of the Great Plains.

Lyndon was dead. Not the President. Not Lyndon Baines Johnson. Just Lyndon. Sadness was there, of course,...

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