Fifty years ago, I arrived at my friend Danny Rich's house after kindergarten.
"The President has been shot," he said.
"No," I corrected Danny, "The President has been shocked." I can recall my feeling of complete conviction on the matter.
The evening before, my father had warned me that it was dangerous to stick a fork into an electrical outlet because I would get shocked. I don't recall ever wanting to stick a fork into a wall plug before, but since I had been told not to, I had been thinking a lot about doing it. So, of course President Kennedy had put a fork in an electrical socket. He was the President. He could do whatever he wanted and nobody could tell him "No."
As I explained to Danny what had really happened, I could see a clear picture in my mind's eye of the President, with his big head of dark hair, down on all fours, sticking a fork into a White House electrical socket. In fact, I can remember it vividly today.
Was the President, you might ask, wearing pajamas with feet in them? Probably, but I wouldn't swear to that under oath.