Eisenhower skies became JFK's sunny day and then turned into LBJ's nightmare, but all of that is said from the perspective of a forty-something, of a middle-aged man. I was just a kid in 1967. I knew the world was on fire, but I couldn't smell the smoke. Instead, I smelled the fresh mown grass on the field at Woodland Elementary, one block from my house. I knew that young men, not much older than my brother, were dying in a jungle called Viet Nam, but I was more afraid of busting my head open when I fell from the monkey bars in the schoolyard. I saw only white faces in my suburban school, but I knew there was someone named Martin Luther King. I was just a kid.

And I was a kid not very sure of himself in that world. Can you be born lonely? Can you be born sad? Or was I simply a product of all I heard on the Evening News with Chet Huntley and John Chancellor while Dad shook his head (Dad was not a Cronkite fan)? I wish I could answer those questions.

I guess you might say I was socially inept (probably still am to some degree). I can't remember not feeling awkward around other kids. Oh, I could fall into their games and the various ebb and flow of established neighborhood rituals, but there was always an uncertainty that I fit in that puzzle, that I would measure up. Square peg, round hole I suppose. Maybe that's why now, as an adult, I organize everything. You see, if I organize something then I can control the outcome. Or, so I tell myself.

The facade of Woodland as it faces Sunbury Drive today.

Woodland Elementary was the center of my seven-year-old world in so many ways. First, it was my refuge. The block that the school sat on was a huge footprint with an inordinate amount of green space around it. Designed in an L-shape, the primary grade side sat inside the L and featured a full-blown playground including concrete "tunnels" (really just four-foot diameter sewer pipes set in the ground), climbing apparatus of every imaginable kind, and a field large enough for practically any childhood game. There were three short hills that were great for bike riding when you were going down and not so great if you were going up. If you pedaled hard, you could get airborne on the way down.

School was an island for me for other reasons as well. Teachers provided structure. Teachers provided positive feedback. Teachers became surrogate parents. In class, I felt like less a fool. I felt like I could use what talent and skill I had to improve my lot. Somehow, I felt comfortable in the confines of those elementary school desks with their lift tops and pre-cut grooves designed to hold your pencils. Here I felt like a round peg in a wax-coated round hole. Perfect fit! I can supply the answers! I can comply with your requests!

As the new school year began, the dutiful tradition of shopping for school clothes reared its head. Mom and I, I'm sure, went to Northland Shopping Center also one block from our house but in the opposite direction from school. With a major department store (Famous-Barr), a local men's store (Boyd's), and Kresgee's (pre-Kmart) we were able to find all of the clothing a first grader would need. Somewhere along the way, we found a green corduroy jacket. It was an Eisenhower cut-- short, ending at the waist with brass buttons much like those you see on jean jackets now. Lightweight material, it was truly no use in freezing temperatures. Somehow I knew I wanted that jacket though.

I really have no idea why I loved it so much. To me it somehow seemed magical. It spoke to me. I felt good in it, maybe even thought I looked good in it. Whatever the reason, I've found no better way to explain why I needed that jacket.

Several weeks into the school year on a gorgeous fall morning, I wore that green corduroy jacket to school. I can't say it was the first time. I just know I wore the jacket. There was a certain crispness in the air and a little frost on the ground, maybe even the first frost of the season. The air was cold enough that you could just see your breath and, as kids did back then, pretend like you were smoking a cigarette. The leaves had begun to turn with some of the red and yellow maple leaves starting to fall. Truly, this was a spectacular fall day; the kind I yearn for still.

Even in those days though, my social skills were a little out of whack. For whatever reason, on this particular morning I found myself at the far end of the playground by myself. The playground had begun emptying, so I knew it had to be close to the first bell as I walked towards my classroom.

Something happened to me during that walk to class though. I was somehow overwhelmed in the fall air, in the swirl of colors, walking in the dew-heavy grass, wearing my green corduroy jacket, dreaming to myself. Somehow I felt more alive than I ever have, that everything was right with me, a moment of clarity like none other in my life. A thunderclap could not have been more true. A two-by-four to the forehead could not have been more centering. Touched by the hand of God or buzzing on two bowls of Fruit Loops, I'll never know, but that feeling was unmistakably real, deep, and resonant.

Carl Jung called it synchronicity.-- that moment when several planes of existence connect and feel larger than ever imagined. I think I felt that. I think I was blessed in that way. I know it changed me.

I guess I'd always been a sad child. I felt lost in my own home and closed away somehow from other people. This moment somehow made me feel as if I had a purpose, that I had something to accomplish in my life. The sadness remained, but somehow it was a burden that seemed worth the effort. For whatever reason, on that day my green corduroy jacket seemed to be a symbol to me, perhaps a shield from some unknown danger, or maybe a promise of something better.

But what an overwhelming feeling for a child! I can't say I knew what happened or understood its significance. I just knew that I was somehow different than I had been before and that I was destined for something remarkable. I'm sure that in many ways this event separated me further from others. I'm equally sure that it happened.

Despite my epiphany, I rarely mentioned that day to others. How can you describe that? How can you make someone feel the depth of that moment? How can I, already feeling outside the boundary of normalcy, bring another into this circle? I have a better than average vocabulary, but even now it seems as if the words have yet to be invented. Still, I remember that day clearly. I know what happened and believe to depths of my soul that there was a communion with something far greater than only me. The resounding depth of that moment vibrates in me to this day. Yes, I think it's gonna work out fine...

Note: While I won't advocate many things that Ike Turner did in life, he wrote a fine song. As covered by Ry Cooder and David Lindley, it's a surefire way to raise a smile on me.