I’ve always found it difficult to write a memoir of my Partin family. Most of what I’ve written is publicly available, but few people outside of the FBI have put together pieces of the puzzle about my grandfather, Edward Grady Partin. You may already know about him, even if you don’t recall his name.
Read moreI arrived at my grandfather’s funeral early, but no one recognized me, so the police didn’t allow me in. I stood on my tip-toes and tried to look over the shoulders of reporters as they took photos of the mayor and LSU football players who had just arrived, but I didn’t see anyone who could let me inside.
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Nature is my church, and I felt like I was in heaven within a half hour of walking uphill from the trailhead in Besi Sahar. I had left the smog and car horns of 2 million people in Kathmandu, and had arrived in a secluded, rural area with neither a person in sight nor an automobile within hearing distance.
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I arrived in Kathmandu without a computer, phone, or hotel reservation. My goal was to spend three months offline, immersed in new experiences. I’d complete my journey by returning to my home in San Diego, and deciding whether or not to have surgery.
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My grandfather was Edward Grady Partin Senior. In the 1950’s and 60’s, he ran the Baton Rouge Teamsters Union. He and the national teamster leader, Jimmy Hoffa, plotted to assassinate Kennedy, and his testimony sent Hoffa to prison. I need to share his story, in order to tell another story.
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I began writing a memoir, and I wrote the first true sentence I remembered as a child: Stevie Nicks was fine. (work in progress)
Read moreReferences used for this work.
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Work in progress April 18 2020
Read moreBefore the pandemic, I was writing a memoir about my time in high school. It began:
“The two FBI agents at my grandfather’s funeral asked us what we knew about the president’s assassination, and where Hoffa was buried.”
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