I'm listening to Bob Dylan's new album and remembering the trauma that gripped most Boomers and their parents when JFK was assassinated.
Placed alongside successors, JFK was incomparable. Reagan, Clinton and Obama came close, but none was as influential as JFK.
JFK was young and lithesome; a wounded combat veteran and war hero; a dashing, thoughtful, cultured, funny and articulate politico; someone you could idolize.
The week after the president died, I recall, my dyed-in-the-wool Democrat father bought a life-size bust of JFK and put it on the mantel in our living room, where it sat for 30 years.
JFK not only steered us safely through near-Armageddon, but taught American men important lessons by example, such as why they should speed-read (they'll be better informed); why they should go hatless (they'll stand out from the crowd); how to look chic while sitting (sit in a rocking chair); who's the best contemporary fictional character (James Bond); and how to love your country (volunteer for pubic service).
And then there was Jackie.
She taught American women by example, too. Jackie taught them to wear suits and pillbox hats; to decorate their homes with antiques; to learn foreign languages and attend concerts and plays; to devote themselves to their children's education and―most memorably of all―to conduct oneself with dignity and aplomb, no matter how foul the deck.
