I ducked out of work at the hospital on the late summer afternoon that they brought Ted Kennedy up from the Cape. As I walked toward Park Street, the closest possible vantage point for a glimpse of the motorcade, I could just make out faint applause carried on the breeze; a smattering, like fat rain drops. Leaves skidded on the walkways and there was a blurring din of helicopters overhead. The Boston Common was packed with tourists celebrating this last gasp of summer, the end of a summer that never really arrived. I was peripherally aware of kids squealing in the wading pool and itinerant bench sitters nodding sleepily or pointing at the sky. The possibility that I might miss the motorcade, in spite of how close I now was, suddenly became a very real and I quickened my pace and began to applaud too, hoping to summon speed. Rolling hub cabs reflected low sun through a black Federal style wrought iron fence as I broke into a run and covered the last few yards to the curb. The ripples of clapping hands gained in strength and crested, but were never more than a distant cousin of the kind heard at games or concerts. Scattered “thank yous” could be heard, not shouted, but offered up like prayers toward the procession. I pressed against the fence, sweating and out of breath, and flashed a peace sign at one of the Kennedy kids who waved from buses and limos, seemingly as dazed by all this as me.
I once got Ted Kennedy’s autograph. It was in California in the mid 60’s. He’d spoken to a crowd that day on the football field at the University of California at Riverside and afterwards I’d rushed the stage with a crowd of autograph seekers and thrust my pen and paper towards him. He was better looking in person, I remember thinking, than in photographs. I had asked for two autographs. He signed the first and handed me back the pen, uncertain of my request. I don’t remember whether he signed a second one.
The attendant applause was already beginning to fade, running erratically up the hill towards the gold domed State House. The procession was rolling too fast to chase down. God, what’s the hurry? The helicopters shifted east and I stood on tiptoe, just glimpsing the tailgate of the hearse trailing a flutter of sentiment and then disappearing over Beacon Hill. Tourists bustled up and down the crisscrossing sidewalk spokes of the Common intent on the all mighty business of navigating to the next historic monument. Shirtless boys sang and played guitar and college girls laughed rapt in text. All signs that he had passed were already gone. I could smell fresh ground coffee. The sun was low and subliminal hints of autumn hurried me along like a tailwind. The Sox were in town and the weather report had it that a hurricane might nick Boston tomorrow before spending itself in the high Atlantic waters. I turned and headed back to work.
