First time I saw him, candidate Kennedy, in front of the Alamo on a sunny hot day, urgency and challenge in his voice, sounded like the same accent as one of the nuns at my heels. Three years later, veteran of the nuclear bomb drills, admirer of humor, Pablo Casals on cello, potential moon hero, again in Alamo city, his last full day on the planet. I saw him in the morning around 11am, as he rode by in the top down, I said to myself,"his face is so red" and that was the last glimpse of him, from my viewpoint. Then came the next day, standing in formation, seeing the coach, transistor radio to his ear, walking quickly to the field where we manuvered the Friday flourish, said I to my eyes, "President Kennedy is dead". Swashbuckle blown from the blasted into greener pastures, bouncing off the west coast of Ireland into eternity. Words are still transmitted, urgency and challenge to see with reckless lucidity, transmitted with pictures altered by a ten year old in the Alamo crowd. Prouder of him as he speaks.
