We went bowling.

Mr. Conley was a cool teacher. He introduced my family to skiing. He showed our class a promotional film about Mt. Snow and I begged my parents to take us and they did, but that was in February, this was a few months before, a week or two after I first saw the Beatles. On Jack Paar. My mother told us to watch them.

Yes, Mr. Conley may have been cool, but Muggs Lefsetz was a hipster, a culture vulture, she was aware of the Beatles before we were. And while my parents were out gallivanting on a Friday night we stayed home and endured Mr. Parr’s show until we saw a grainy black and white film of four long-haired boys singing “We love to yeah, yeah.”

We laughed. Hysterically.

Little did we know that less than two months later the Beatles would overtake popular culture, the whole wide world, and that song would be a hit entitled “She Loves You” with “I’ll Get You” on the flip side of the 45. At this point, I was addicted to the Four Seasons.

It was not my first record, that was “The Martian Hop,” but I implored my mother to buy me “Dawn (Go Away)” and she did. And I played it until the grooves turned grey. I discovered it at Nutmeg Bowl. On Kings Highway. Beneath the discount center known as Topps, where I purchased my initial LPs.

I’m not sure how I became a bowling fanatic. It was a huge sport in the sixties. We watched the PBA on Saturday afternoon, before “Wide World Of Sports,” I even had my own ball. And when we hit sixth grade, and had Mr. Conley, we were privileged to be able to take a bus every Friday to said bowling alley. I guess it was like middle school dances, but this was before there were middle schools and when you had to wait until junior high to go to the sock hop.

Speaking of junior high, it was in the same building.

Yes, Fairfield Woods was both an elementary and a junior high school. With most of the junior high in the new addition. This was back in the sixties, when teachers didn’t have to bring their own supplies, when everybody was middle class, didn’t bitch about taxes and we were all trying to be the best we could be. They were always expanding and building new schools, after all, the baby boomers required it, in sheer numbers alone.

But unlike the other sixth grade class, Mr. Conley’s room was in the new addition. On the tiny ground level floor in the far reaches of the structure. Where it was only us and the band room. We had direct access to a paved play area, where we played kickball during recess. And Mr. Conley would play too. He’d kick it so high and so far the challenge was just to catch it, which we rarely did.

But the point is we were out of the loop. Which is how we liked it. I won’t quite say Mr. Conley was an experimental teacher, there were none of those until the late sixties, but he tested the limits, off the radar screen, yet was still accepted by the mainstream.

And killing the last hour and a half before we could get on that bus to Nutmeg Bowl, you remember, staring out the window on Friday, just waiting for school to end, a junior high student came down from the floor above and told us Mrs. Taylor was crying, that the President had been shot.

Mrs. Taylor? Crying?

She was a legendary hard-ass. She had no reign over us elementary school kids, but that didn’t mean she didn’t boss us around while we were on our way to the cafeteria.

This didn’t make sense. And we didn’t believe it. This was before Snopes, before you could check the truth. But that does not mean there weren’t false rumors. After all, Jan Berry was supposed to have been killed in a crash on Dead Man’s Curve and the Beaver was supposed to have died in Vietnam, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

About half an hour later, the principal got on the intercom.

It was true. Kennedy was dead.

It was kind of like 9/11. It was unanticipated. We woke up without even considering it. Now the President was gone.

Now what?

We weren’t old enough to be scared. Weren’t old enough to be worried. There were no cell phones to call our parents. But even though I walked home, as most of us did, before parents became afraid their children would be stolen if they didn’t eye them 24/7, some kids took the bus, should they take it home or…were we still going to go bowling?

There were about fifteen minutes of limbo. The bowling bus appeared in the driveway. Mr. Conley and a couple of teachers conferred.

Then the verdict came down. We were going.

And I’d like to tell you the mood was somber, that we were crying and unable to concentrate. But that would be untrue. It was almost the same as it ever was. We got french fries from the concession stand. We were frustrated when we missed splits.

But after two strings we were done.

Usually, we then gravitated to the jukebox. But not this day. This day, the bus was late, we wondered if it was ever gonna come at all, and while we waited we watched the black and white set, which was tuned into the news, every channel showed the news, back when there were three networks and three independents and you could literally turn on the set and say there was nothing you wanted to watch.

And the ride home was quiet. No one knew what was going to happen next. We’d seen Lyndon Johnson be sworn in. But when we got home, would things be different?

Not really. Except the world stopped. For the entire weekend, every adult was glued to the television set.

We watched for a while. But missed when Ruby shot Oswald. But caught it on the replay.

And then Monday was a day off, of mourning. I rode my bike up to the reservoir with Bobby Hickey. It was sunny, but almost bitterly cold. But we were not going to stay inside on this day of liberty.

That’s what we had when JFK was alive.

There’s been recent hogwash denigrating JFK’s legacy. And I don’t want to get into the specifics of his administration, his policy choices and his personal life, all I’ll tell you is JFK ushered in the sixties. An era where you were encouraged to think for yourself and be everything you wanted to be.

Culture was paramount. Jackie gave us tours of the White House. Jack told us we were going to the moon. Sure, money counted, but everybody was pursuing science and art and there was a definitive air of possibility.

We’d watched the inauguration. It was a snow day, there was no school. Suddenly, the President was not an old man. And Robert Frost, someone we were aware of and could comprehend, read a poem. And JFK wore no hat and hats evaporated overnight. And then there was that famous speech…

“Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.”

To say it was different from today would be an understatement. The common good, helping your brother, those were the highest duties. Selfishness was abhorrent. Ayn Rand was not a national hero. You could question authority, but there was no doubt we were all in it together.

And there was even the First Family, Vaughn Meader comedy records. You could make fun of the President even if you liked him, there was no viciousness involved.

And then it was done.

It was the beginning of the tumult. When seemingly every year thereafter there was a riot or an assassination and it looked like the country was crumbling.

But what was being birthed was a new nation, not under God, but ruled by baby boomers who took nothing for granted, questioned every precept and tested artistic limits in ways that are still remembered today.

And JFK started it.

No one bitched about a can’t do government.

Alan Shepard blasted off into space. John Glenn circled the world.

It was the beginning of who we became.

And that’s why it’s so important.

And that’s why we remember.

It made us who we are.