As we waited for the president’s speech that night in 1962, I wrote about Death (capitalizing it, teenager style) in my diary. “PRESIDENT GRAVE” was the sub-head in the New York Times, under the eight column headline.
And the next day, of all days, we had one of those crazy air raid drills at school – out in the hall, crouched by our lockers, arms wrapped around our necks.
Glenn Beck cries and says those were simpler times. I’m not so sure.