Forty years ago, we were lined up along the east wall. I had consumed my usual sack lunch, and we had played away the rest of the lunch recess. Now it was time to get back into the classes, and back to school.

I have no idea who my teacher was that year, except that she was female. And not Miss Rahm, because she was 3rd grade, and I remember her.

But we were lined up, single file along the brick wall, on the concrete sidewalk that surrounds the school. The 6th graders lined up along the wall at the classroom to the left, the 4th graders at the painted door to the right of our line. Immediately adjacent to the foursquare games, those white and yellow boxes painted onto the asphalt playground.

I have no idea how to play foursquare anymore. Used to be good at it.

But it was in that line that we heard the news.

President Kennedy's been shot.

I remember my words.

Good. My Dad doesn't like him.

This based entirely on the overhearing of a previous conversation between him and my Mom in the front seat of our car, our '56 Chevy stationwagon. My father complaining about the results of the election, and that Kennedy was going to raise our taxes.

We were seated inside, quietly not resuming classwork, when the announcement came over the PA.

President Kennedy was dead.

And I no longer cared about taxes.

I remember someone crying, but I don't know who. I don't remember anything else about that day.

And thus ended the presidency of the greatest President my country has seen in my lifetime.