Slouching Toward Camelot

“Yeah, she’s definitely famous. Or she’s from Worcester.”

I was 14 years old, waiting for a plane at the Martha’s Vineyard airport with my friend Rachel. It’s a tiny building, and there were only two other people in the place--a man and a woman chatting together about 20 feet away from us. The woman looked familiar.

“I know that woman,” I said to Rachel.

She was slender, with good posture. My mom was a dancer, so I thought maybe it was a friend of her’s that I couldn’t quite place. She wore tapered black pants, a scarlet blouse, and big sunglasses. _Hmm, maybe she’s famous,_ I thought.

My family is from Worcester, Massachusetts, where my grandfather used to run a small grocery store, the Green St. Market. Growing up it was the center of my universe. So after staring at the woman for a while I said to Rachel, “Yeah, she’s definitely famous. Or she’s from Worcester.”

Finally, I figured that if I took her photo my mom could offer a positive ID. Rachel and I walked over and I asked, “Excuse me, may I take your picture?”

“No, sweetie,” the woman said gently. “I’m sorry.”

We walked away, and a third man approached us. “Do you know who that is?”

“No, who?”

“Jacqueline Onassis,” he told us.

“What was she in?” Rachel asked.

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