2006_3_68

When I was growing up in the suburbs of Pittsburgh in the early 1960s, the Kennedys were a vivid presence in our household. My father had Profiles in Courage on the bookshelf by his special chair, and Jackie Kennedy’s outfits were featured in all of my mother’s fashion magazines. Even I, a first-grader, had a Jackie and Caroline paper-doll set that I played with all the time. I was fascinated by Caroline because she was born a mere five days before me in late 1957.

In August 1963, my family went on vacation to Cape Cod. On the first Sunday of our trip, my father made a detour from the route we usually took to the beach and pulled into a little parking lot just off a two-lane rural road. Another family was already parked there, and I couldn’t understand why. There was nothing to see but the hedge bordering the road, and nothing to hear but the faint sound of waves in the distance.

I was bored. “Be patient,” my father said, “something exciting is going to happen.” But that was hard to believe. My mother sat sideways in the passenger seat, using the flip-down visor mirror to put on her lipstick. My little brother dozed in his car seat. My dad chatted with the father of the other family, leaning against the side of their car. I tried counting birds flying overhead, but hardly any went by.

I got out of the car and drifted around the makeshift parking lot, a mere patch of gravel carved out of a field. I began to run around the lot in circles to see how dizzy I could make myself. Suddenly, I heard the growl of what sounded like motorbikes in the distance. Intrigued, I glanced up, still running. The toe of my sneaker caught on something, and I pitched forward heavily onto the gravel.

I can distinctly remember the sharp pain in my knees and my howl of shock and outrage. At that exact second, my father shouted, “He’s coming!” and my mother hooked me under the armpits and swung me like a sack of potatoes to the verge of the road. Along the narrow country lane came two motorcycle outriders and then a long black limousine. To my astonishment, I saw at the limo’s window the unmistakable face of the president of the United States.

When John F. Kennedy caught sight of me, a tearful five-year-old with bloody knees, he said something to his driver, and the long, low car slowed to a crawl. The president turned back to the window and smiled and waved—at me.

“Wave, wave,” my mother urged, her own hands still trapped under my armpits, and I did, mesmerized by the president’s dazzling, sympathetic smile. I could feel trickles of blood