The Kennedys and I - 1 of 4

Growing up inside a Kennedy shrine never seemed odd to me.
During the early 60s, the Kennedy family was so omnipresent in my life that I actually thought they were sort of distant cousins we just didn't see very often. We had framed pictures of them on our walls. We doted over them on TV, in the papers and in LIFE and LOOK magazines. Our moms dished about Jackie's breathy voice and goldfish eyes, and cooed over John-John’s little British knickers. I had a girl-crush on Caroline, who not only had a pony but appeared to wear many, many crisp petticoats under her skirts, which I coveted for their twirling possibilities.

When Jack Kennedy came to Chicago on my fourth birthday, I actually believed my mother when she said he had come just for me. She lifted me in her arms so I could wave as his parade car slid past. I remember the impossibly square grin and the glint of copper hair in October sun. I yelled down at her amid the roaring crowd, "I never knew President Kennedy was a red-headed!" When he left town suddenly, I was hurt. Much later, I learned the Bay of Pigs fiasco had also shared my birthday that year.

In 1962 we moved back to Ohio, but the Kennedys followed us. The pictures went up on new walls, which the furniture was arranged around.

Everyone in central Ohio loved them, even the Republicans, which was just about everybody. During a rare visit to Columbus, Jack Kennedy laughingly told the crowd, "I never get a warmer welcome and fewer votes than in Columbus, Ohio."

The day he died, our school sent kids home early. I remember scuffing home through November leaves with the first real fear of my life spooling in my stomach. I watched his black-and-white funeral, nursing a big, milky bowl of Crispy Critters in my lap while the grown-ups wept.

My mother hung a new picture on the wall. It was a watercolor sketch of JFK in a suit, walking on the beach with seagulls flying around his head. I guess he was supposed to be in Cape Cod. It seemed a strangely formal ensemble for beach-walking, but, well, he was the president.

That picture hangs on my mother's wall to this day. The quote at the bottom of the sketch reads, "We all felt we knew him."

We did.