From Remembrance to Preparation: A Kennedy Reflection

I returned home from work this afternoon, and now, as I settle into the weekend, I am seated at my desk beside my Kennedy book collection, taking time to write, even as many prepare for another winter storm in the coming days.

Today would have been Jean Kennedy Smith’s ninety eighth birthday, and in her honor, I wanted to write this entry. I met her once in 2017 at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library.

It was a brief encounter, but it stayed with me. After she passed away in 2020, that moment took on greater weight. It was then that I began intentionally building what has now become a Kennedy collection approaching two hundred volumes.

What began as remembrance gradually became sustained engagement with the history of her family and their era.

That engagement deepened on September 8 of last year, when three volumes arrived together. 

The Senator from New England examined John F. Kennedy before the presidency, still shaping his political identity. Janet and Jackie turned to the private formation of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, tracing the influence of her mother. In Her Sister’s Shadow shifted the focus outward again, exploring the life of Lee Radziwill and the parallel narratives within the Bouvier family. Together, they broadened the scope of the collection from a single presidency to an interconnected family history. They marked the beginning of a more deliberate season of study.

Five months ago, on October 11, 2025, one week before leaving for Hyannis, I visited the grave of Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr. at Mount Auburn Cemetery. 

While Jean preserved her brother’s memory within her family, Schlesinger preserved it in the historical record. Both were connected to President John F. Kennedy, one by blood and the other by scholarship.

During my visit, I did not rush. I sat for some time and imagined what I would ask him if he were still living. I imagined asking what it requires to become a serious historian, not merely someone who admires the past, but someone disciplined enough to engage it carefully. I imagined him counseling rigor, patience, and humility before evidence.

Eight days later, from October 19 to 23, I walked through Hyannis. 

The town was quieter than I expected. The October air was cool, the light muted, and the rhythm of the harbor steady. I stood outside the Hyannis Armory and later walked the roads near the Kennedy Compound, careful to remain at a respectful distance. 

What struck me was not grandeur, but steadiness. The houses, the trees, and the granite shoreline felt lived rather than monumental. Hyannis ceased to be symbolic and became geographic. In that quiet, history felt less like narrative and more like continuity.

In the month after returning from Hyannis, several books arrived that deepened the foundation already built. I had intended to publish a reflection ahead of the November 22 anniversary, but the weeks passed quietly and I never made time to write.

On October 31, Letters to Jackie: Condolences from a Grieving Nation preserved the voices of ordinary Americans writing through grief.

On November 5, an abridged and illustrated edition of A Thousand Days joined the three other editions I already own. 

Arthur M. Schlesinger Jr. wrote that book from firsthand experience inside the administration, and obtaining this edition felt, in a small way, like honoring his memory after visiting his grave only weeks earlier. It was not redundancy but perspective.

On November 6 came The Kennedys Amidst the Gathering Storm, returning to London in the uneasy years before war. 

Jean appears on the cover alongside her parents and siblings, a reminder that she had a front row seat to history.

On November 25, John F. Kennedy, Jr.’s birthday, The Abyss: Nuclear Crisis Cuba 1962 by Max Hastings arrived, recounting the Cuban Missile Crisis when civilization stood perilously close to catastrophe.

When I placed it beside my other volumes on President Kennedy and the Cuban Missile Crisis, I felt a quiet sense of preparedness. If I were called upon to write about those thirteen days, I would have direct access to these sources without needing to rely solely on distant archives.

Though I was pleased with these additions, something arrived that I had wanted for years. On November 3, The Presidential Recordings, John F. Kennedy, Volumes I to III, The Great Crises arrived.

This set feels different from any other volume on my shelves. It is not biography or commentary. It is transcript, direct access to recorded conversations inside the White House during the most consequential decisions of the administration. For years, consulting this material required research libraries or the archives at the John F. Kennedy Library in Boston. Holding these volumes in my own hands feels less like acquisition and more like responsibility.

There are still volumes I hope to add in time, including The Presidential Recordings, Volumes IV to VI, The Winds of Change.

For now, they remain beyond what I feel comfortable justifying financially. That is not frustration. It is discipline. With nearly two hundred Kennedy related volumes now on my shelves, I feel prepared for serious research when the time comes. The absence of three additional books does not diminish that readiness. They can wait.

The Kennedy collection no longer feels like pursuit. It feels prepared. The shelves are steady. The urgency has softened.

Though today marks Jean Kennedy Smith’s ninety eighth birthday, it also calls to mind another moment in her family’s history. On February 20, 1961, her brother, President John F. Kennedy delivered his Special Message to the Congress on Education, a call to invest not merely in buildings or institutions, but in the development of human capacity.

It feels fitting to conclude with his words:

“Our progress as a nation can be no swifter than our progress in education. Our requirements for world leadership, our hopes for economic growth, and the demands of citizenship itself in an era such as this all require the maximum development of every young American’s capacity.

The human mind is our fundamental resource. A balanced Federal program must go well beyond incentives for investment in plant and equipment. It must include equally determined measures to invest in human beings, both in their basic education and training and in their more advanced preparation for professional work. Without such measures, the Federal Government will not be carrying out its responsibilities for expanding the base of our economic and military strength.

Our twin goals must be: a new standard of excellence in education and the availability of such excellence to all who are willing and able to pursue it.”

Post-Hyannis Reflection: The American Experience Continues

Today marks the twelfth anniversary of the premiere of the American Experience documentary JFK, first broadcast on PBS on November 11, 2013. 

I remember attending a forum at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum two weeks and four days earlier that year, an event presented in collaboration with American Experience. 

That same evening, I met Andrew Young, the civil rights activist and diplomat, and Robert Dallek, the historian and author of several presidential biographies. 

Both were commentators in the documentary.

I had already met Harris Wofford, President Kennedy’s civil rights advisor, that August, and would later meet historian Evan Thomas in 2014 and Jean Kennedy Smith in 2017. They, too, were among the documentary’s commentators.

The film has remained one of my favorites because those encounters gave it a living connection. It is one thing to watch a documentary about history; it is another to have met some of the people whose voices shaped it. Their presence, even in memory, adds a kind of quiet warmth to the screen. Years later, I found a DVD copy of JFK at Newbury Comics in Cambridge in March of 2021. 

Though I already have a digital version, I still keep the disc as something tangible, a reminder of how deeply the story has accompanied me through the years.

As I type this entry, I have the documentary playing on my laptop. Hearing it again after my recent pilgrimage to Hyannis gives the narration a new depth. The images of Cape Cod, the beaches, the Hyannis Armory, all of it now feels personal, familiar, and alive.

When the film reaches the moment of President Kennedy’s victory speech, I can picture myself standing outside the Armory, where he spoke those words:

“And I can assure you that every degree of mind and spirit that I possess will be devoted to the long-range interest of the United States and to the cause of freedom around the world. So now my wife and I prepare for a new administration and for a new baby. Thank you.”

Hearing those lines again, I see not just the black-and-white footage but the red brick and the November light. History breathes when you have stood where it happened.

The most moving part of my visit was seeing the Kennedy Compound. 

I felt a little like Moses on Mount Nebo, able only to look upon the promised land from a distance. I imagined the family gathered there through the years, celebrating, mourning, and simply living their lives. I realized that these places were not just settings for history; they were homes filled with laughter, loss, and love.

When I visited the final resting place of Saoirse Kennedy Hill, I felt a quiet sadness. 

She was only twenty-two years old, younger than I am now. I remember standing there with a sense of pity for a life that ended so soon, though I knew almost nothing about her at the time.

It was only after returning from Hyannis and reading White House By the Sea by Kate Storey that I began to understand who she was. Saoirse had never lived in the public eye. She was the only child of Courtney Kennedy Hill, and by all accounts she was warm, bright, and full of energy. The book describes her as having a “big personality,” the kind of presence people remembered. When she took clothes to a local seamstress, the woman asked if she was a Kennedy. While other cousins might have smiled politely, Saoirse answered without hesitation, “Yes, I am. I’m Ethel’s granddaughter.”

I once saw a photograph of her with her mother at the White House. 

She looked so young, standing there where so much history had unfolded. I have often dreamed of visiting that same place myself. It moved me to realize that this young woman, who once stood on that red-carpeted drive, would later become a figure of quiet remembrance. It was not until she died that most of the public even knew her name.

Her story made me reflect on the many members of the Kennedy family who lived out of the spotlight, carrying the family legacy in ways that history rarely records. It also reminded me how brief and fragile life can be, even for those whose names are woven into national memory.

This trip, as well as the book, made me think about Jean Kennedy Smith with deeper appreciation. 

I had seen places that she herself had visited. I may have been outside the Hyannis Armory, where President Kennedy gave his 1960 victory speech, but she was inside on the stage with her parents and siblings when her oldest surviving brother delivered it. 

I may have been outside the Kennedy Compound, but she was familiar with its rooms and had precious memories of her time there.

Though much of White House By the Sea was tender, one passage unsettled me. After Ted Kennedy and Eunice Kennedy Shriver died in 2009, Jean, the last surviving sibling, stopped coming to the Cape, saying it was too painful, too heavy with their absence. I wondered if, when I met her in 2017, that ache still lingered, and if she ever considered visiting her childhood home one last time.

I have thought often about what this pilgrimage has meant to me. At first, it was simply a chance to visit the places where the Kennedys lived and walked, but I see now that it became something quieter and more inward. Walking through Hyannis was like walking through a mirror of my own life, a reflection of memory, faith, and time. I felt as though I had stepped into a space where the living and the remembered still shared the same air.

History has always been my refuge but being there taught me that history is not only a record of what has been. It is also a way of belonging. The Kennedys are remembered for their power and their tragedy, but what stayed with me most were the small things like the white clapboard homes, the sound of the sea behind them, the light falling across the church steps. These details reminded me that legacy is made not in moments of triumph but in how people live between them.

Each evening when I returned to my room, I wrote in silence. The words came slowly, as if I were trying to capture something I could not quite hold. The sound of distant traffic, the smell of salt in the air, and the hum of the heater became the rhythm of my reflection. I thought about the speeches I have read and the books I have collected, and how none of them can fully describe what it feels like to stand where a story began.

I realized that every pilgrimage, no matter how historical, becomes personal. It begins with admiration but ends with self-examination. I asked myself why I am drawn to this family, to these places. I think it is because their story holds the same questions that haunt all of us: What does it mean to live with purpose? How do we endure loss and still believe in hope? And what do we leave behind that might outlast us?

I think this trip has shaped my thoughts about what I want for the future. Hyannis is a quiet and modest town, but I grew to like it very much. Even now, as I settle back into my usual work and routine, I keep thinking about what life might be like if I lived there. I can picture myself in a small house with two or three bedrooms, all on one floor. On weekday mornings from Monday through Thursday, I would walk to a local CrossFit gym for the early class at five thirty. Those classes would help me meet people and become part of the community. Afterward, I would come home, shower, rest a bit, have breakfast, and then head out to work. Fridays would be lighter days, and I would spend the weekends walking around town and learning more about its history. I would hope to contribute to the Hyannis Public Library and the John F. Kennedy Hyannis Museum and make a meaningful and positive impact there. I might go into Boston once a month to visit the JFK Library or another historical site. I would also hope to contribute to telling the story of the Kennedy family to a new generation. I imagine that life there would feel peaceful, grounded, and meaningful.

The winters would be tough, but I would settle there because it would be home to me and I would make the best of it. I can imagine on very cold evenings, I would sit in my warm living room or warm home office reading and researching for papers or perhaps books for future publications. Though I would have no relatives nearby, my family could be the friends I have made on Instagram, though I know it would not be the same. I would also hope to find genuine, meaningful, and real love with someone special, hopefully with mutual interests as well.

I think I would visit the Kennedy Compound area only once a year, sometime in late October or November. If I lived there now, I would return on November twenty-second, the anniversary of President Kennedy’s death, to remember his life and legacy. I would view the house for a few minutes and then walk to the shore, sit on the granite rocks, and look out toward the sea. I would imagine him sailing his beloved Victura and think about the lands beyond the Atlantic that I have not yet seen but still hope to discover someday.

Sometimes I picture myself there again, walking along the same roads at dusk, hearing the gulls overhead, feeling the cool wind from the bay. The light would change, but the sea would remain the same. I imagine myself pausing by the memorial once more, not as a visitor retracing history, but as someone who has finally found a place to rest and reflect.

Hyannis, for me, has become more than a place on the map. It is a meeting point between memory and hope, a reminder that legacies are not only preserved in archives but in the quiet steps of those who continue to remember. Every journey there, whether by bus, by foot, or by page, feels like returning to a story that is still being written, one that asks not for grandeur, but for gratitude.

And on this Veterans Day, sixty-four years after President Kennedy spoke at Arlington National Cemetery, I want to conclude this entry with his words that still remind us of what remembrance truly means:

“Today we are here to celebrate and to honor and to commemorate the dead and the living, the young men who in every war since this country began have given testimony to their loyalty to their country and their own great courage.

We celebrate this Veterans Day for a very few minutes, a few seconds of silence and then this country's life goes on. But I think it most appropriate that we recall on this occasion, and on every other moment when we are faced with great responsibilities, the contribution and the sacrifice which so many men and their families have made in order to permit this country to now occupy its present position of responsibility and freedom...

On this Veterans Day of 1961, on this day of remembrance, let us pray in the name of those who have fought in this country's wars... that there will be no veterans of any further war—not because all shall have perished but because all shall have learned to live together in peace.”

Pilgrimage to Hyannis, Day Five: Farewell and Departure

In the evening after dinner, I packed my belongings so that I would not have to rush in the morning. I wanted my final hours in Hyannis to feel deliberate, not hurried. As I packed, I watched PBS and saw a short promotional segment about KISSINGER, an upcoming American Experience documentary.

The image of Kissinger immediately brought to mind a photo I had once seen in Patrick J. Kennedy's memoir A Common Struggle: a very young Patrick kneeling beside Dr. Kissinger, also kneeling, proudly showing him a small aquarium in his childhood bedroom. 

It reminded me that although I came to Hyannis for the Kennedys, my interest in history is not limited to a single family but to the currents of leadership, consequence, and human complexity that shape public life.

I slept lightly and woke around 4:30 in the morning, then drifted back to sleep. I had planned to walk before sunrise to the JFK Memorial at Lewis Bay to watch the first light over the water, hoping to later watch the sunset at the JFK Memorial in Cambridge once I returned home, a sunrise and sunset, two bookends to a pilgrimage. But when I opened the balcony door, the cold air rushed in. I had only a thin hoodie and had only just recovered from sinus trouble two days earlier. I chose, reluctantly, to remain inside.

At 9:00 I woke again and went downstairs for breakfast one final time, which I carried back to my room while listening to the morning news. Since I had already packed, it took only a few minutes to make sure nothing was left behind.

At 10:22 I checked out of the hotel, taking one last quiet look at the room that had sheltered me for four nights.

I still had time before my departure, so I walked to the Hyannis Public Library for a final visit. 

I do not fully understand why I felt so drawn to that small building, but it had become a sanctuary to me, not a tourist destination, but a place of warmth, stillness, and thought.

Returning to it four times in four days revealed something I had not consciously named. I did not go there for research or shelter or scenery. I went because it felt like a place where I belonged. It was not history behind glass like the museum, nor legacy preserved in stone like the memorials. It was something quieter, a living space of thought rather than tribute, of presence rather than memory. I realized, sitting there for the last time, that I was not only visiting Hyannis. I was rehearsing what it might feel like to live here, to have a corner of the world where I could enter, sit down, and not feel like a guest but someone slowly learning how to arrive. 

I sat for about fifteen minutes, absorbing the familiar hush, as if saying a small goodbye.

When I left, I briefly walked to see the nearby campus of Cape Cod Community College in Hyannis since I have been contemplating an eventual return to school. 

I learned that it mainly houses the ACCCESS program and that the main campus is nearly four miles away in Barnstable. It left me wondering what attending classes there would look like in practical terms, whether this place that felt spiritually familiar could one day also become educationally real.

With limited time remaining, I considered walking the Kennedy Legacy Trail again but decided against risking the distance. Instead, I returned to the first landmark I had visited on my arrival, the bronze statue of President Kennedy in front of the JFK Hyannis Museum. 

Four days ago, it was a welcome. Today it was a farewell. I stood before him for several minutes. The figure is sculpted barefoot, moving forward as if toward the sea. I did not speak aloud, but my thoughts were their own prayer of gratitude and hope. This would be the final image of Hyannis before I left.

Soon I walked the short distance to the Hyannis Transportation Center and arrived early for my bus. As it pulled away, I saw a Cape Cod Central Railroad train departing at the same time, two journeys leaving from the same point. I wondered where its passengers were headed and what new stories they were beginning.

During the ride back to Boston I sat quietly with my thoughts. 

I wondered what these four days would become in me over time. Whether I might return one day not as a visitor but as a neighbor. Whether this was the end of something or the beginning of something. Or both.

My bus arrived at South Station at 1:35 in the afternoon. 

Instead of going home, I made an unplanned decision. I took my luggage and went directly to the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum. 

I knew it would be closed due to the government shutdown, but I needed to stand there anyway, because that building is the other doorway through which this journey began, years earlier, when I met Jean Kennedy Smith.

The pilgrimage did not begin in Hyannis. It began the day I met her. That moment created the interior movement which led me here. She was the last living link to both Jack and Bobby and when she stood before me, she represented not history on display but history still breathing. I did not fully understand it at the time, but something sacred had begun. Returning to the library now was not repetition. It was return. The journey could not conclude on the Cape itself. It had to come back to the point of first stirrings, the quiet place where longing turned into pilgrimage.

Unable to enter the building, I walked down to the Harbor Walk behind it.

There, to my astonishment, Victura was still on display, facing outward toward the ocean as if ready to sail.

I had seen it before, but until this pilgrimage I had never fully understood how much of his identity was formed not in marble or monuments but in motion, in steering forward.

In Hyannis I walked the ground where he lived. Here I stood before a vessel that carried what grounded him. The boat was not memory. It was direction.

The boat pointed outward toward the open water, not anchored, not still. The inscription at Lewis Bay echoed in my mind, and I realized his words were the truest ending this pilgrimage could have. Not my own reflection, but his:

I believe that it is important that this country sail and not lie still in the harbors. Great opportunities lie before us, and great responsibilities have been placed upon us. I believe we can meet them. We have in the past, we are going to today, and I know we will in the future.
— John F. Kennedy, Address to the Nation on the State of the US Economy, August 13, 1962