Saturday night I stood in my fourth-grade classroom for the first time in 48 years. A young girl conducted an alumni tour. I said, out loud, unfiltered, "I was sitting here when they told us Kennedy was shot."
The pubescent guide continued to explain how the room is used today, but I was years away. By the time my mind was in sync with her, we were down a level and outside the dreaded principal's office. I shivered waiting for that bowling ball in flowing black robes to rumble into the corridor.
I never had much love for school. I was ready to drop out in second grade but somehow hung so I'd enjoy going to high school class reunions. I've been to four, including the 25th and the 40th.