It's a cliché now, but my high school in the early 1960s resembled the movie Grease or the television show Happy Days. I became President of the local fan club for Fabian, a teen idol, which consisted of me and two other girls. Paul McCartney was my favorite Beatle. Years later, when I met icons from my youth,like Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Mick Jagger, I didn't know whether to shake hands or jump up and down squealing. All, however, was not okay during my high school years. I was sitting in geometry class on November 22, 1963, puzzling over one of Mr. Craddock's problems, when another teacher came to tell us President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. The halls were silent as thousands of students walked in disbelief and denial to the school auditorium. Finally, our principal came in and said we would be dismissed early. When I got home, I found my mother in front of the television set watching Walter Cronkite. Cronkite announced that President Kennedy had died at 1 P.M. Central Standard Time. She confessed that she had voted for Kennedy and felt so sorry for his wife and children. So did I.I also felt sorry for our country and I wanted to help in some way, although I had no idea how.