Sixty years ago today I was in the tenth grade, sitting next to my friend, Lenny Quaranto, in Mrs Kopitko’s French class. We had cross-country practice after school, but it was my Mother’s birthday and I wanted to get home. My Dad was stationed overseas in Korea, and I wanted to be there for her. All of a sudden Mr. Morry, our decidedly unique school principal, came on the school PA system, and in his usually mercurial way said, “Boys and girls, the president has been shot.” Lenny and I looked at each other, thinking the same thing, as it turned out, and he said, “Who would shoot Bill Osborne?” Bill was our class president, the nicest kid you could ever meet. It was unlikely he would be the target of a madman. Before I could answer, the feedback screeched, and Mr. Morry, ever the font of information, uttered those four words I’ll never forget, “of the United States.” Without further ado, he clicked off, leaving us sitting in stunned silence. Track practice was canceled after we heard the news later in the day that our shining young president had been slaughtered by, yes indeed, a madman. It was snowing by the time I was able to start to walk the two miles to home. Luckily a neighbor was driving by and gave me a ride. We both listened intently to the radio. I remember that I wasn’t embarrassed to see that we both had tears rolling down our faces, as we mourned a young man of peace and a nation of innocence, both now gone forever.