The flaked and faded word Caroline painted in aqua script across the bulbous nose of an old Convair fuselage looms up unexpectedly and stuns you. There sits one of the most evocative remnants of Camelot, silent in the pale winter sun, assaulted by the sounds of pizza parlors and service stations. The suburbanites of Silver Hill rush by this tiny corner of Maryland uncomprehending. Thirty years ago, the world knew. Two engines would belch smoke and roar a message of adventure, as John Kennedy staked out his New Frontier across the nation.
Countless times you bounded up those stairs, flopped in...