2 PM, Nov. 22, 1963.
Those of us that are around my age and older can probably remember where
we were and what we were doing at that moment. Besides personal triumphs and tragedies, there are probably
only a handful of other events in our life spans that take permanent residence
in our memory banks. For instance,
the moon landing in July of 1969 and the 9/11 attacks come to mind with
relative ease. Specifics come to
the fore pretty quickly.
In my case, I was at the very tail end of my 7th
year, attending Wycliffe Elementary School in Upper Arlington, Ohio. It was
1:30 in the afternoon, and for some reason, there was a delay in heading
outside for our afternoon recess.
My third grade teacher, Mrs. Swanson, had a worried look on her
face. An announcement came over
the school P.A. system requesting that every class of the school was to proceed
outside and line-up behind each of our teachers in single file rows on the
playground next to the north entrance. As we were gathering our coats and
shuffling down the halls, I noticed the adults talking in hushed tones with
each other. Some of them were crying. It was still Indian summer, and was
probably around 50 degrees and cloudy as we gathered outside. The school
principal had a bullhorn to address everyone.
“Something very sad has happened today in Dallas, Texas with
President Kennedy. We think it is
best to dismiss school early so you can go home immediately to be with your
families,” came the amplified declaration from the lady in charge (When I think
about this now, I realize this would’ve never flown in today’s world. But back then, nearly all of us walked
or rode our bicycles to school, and in practically every case, there was a
full-time mom awaiting each of us when we would get home each afternoon at
3:30). “Please, children, no
running or playing as you leave…it is VERY important that you go home
immediately. No dawdling.”
Of course, every child is bubbly with excitement when school
is cancelled because of weather…but this was the first time any of us could
remember that it was called off right in the middle of a day. And what the
Principal shared, along with the distress shown on the faces of the other
teachers, we knew this was something very bad. I located my little sister, Joyce, who was a kindergartner,
then found my older brother Jim, a 5th grader, and we began our
eight block walk. It seemed like every one of us hurried our ways homeward much
more quickly and quietly than I could ever recall. Several times, Joyce
whispered, “Why are we going home early?” Jim and I just kept telling her,
“We’ll find out as soon as we get home.”
When we rushed in through the front door, my mother had an
ironing board set up in the living room—which was not the norm--and she was
pressing clothes while watching Walter Cronkite (the news anchor of choice in
the Hollingsworth household).
“What’s happening, with the President, Mommy?” Jim blurted
out.
We could tell she had been crying, and she replied,
“President Kennedy was shot by someone in Dallas.” Then, with a catch in her voice, she said, “They are afraid
that he is dead. Let’s pray that
the doctors can help him.”
It was odd to see the normally stoic Cronkite taking his
reading glasses on and off as sheets of paper were handed to him. He wasn’t wearing a suit coat, and was
speaking from a work desk surrounded by telephones, files, and scurrying people
in the background, as opposed the more formal look of his nightly newscasts.
I guess it was around 2:30 PM when we saw Cronkite give the
official, heartbreaking news (at the 5:00 mark of the video below). Even today,
I can remember him pausing several times, as if to stifle tears.
For a family that didn’t watch much television, we spent a
lot of time over the next several days being bathed in those cathode rays. Everything seemed so much more
subdued. A pall fell over our
house, the whole neighborhood, and indeed, the nation. We asked questions to our parents, but
ultimately, none of their answers made sense, and I think they realized it as
well.
My birthday was the day after the assassination. While my mother made me my favorite
meal of spaghetti with meatballs and a warm chocolate cake, there was no sense
of joy to the proceedings.
During the funeral procession two days later, the joint
military band played “Eternal Father, Strong to Save,” also known as “The
Navy Hymn,” as they marched with the coffin from the Capitol Rotunda to
Arlington National Cemetery. It was Kennedy’s favorite, and he had heard it
plenty himself as a WWII hero in the Pacific when fellow sailors were laid to
rest. The third verse seemed particularly apropos for the scene:
Most Holy Spirit! Who didst brood
Upon the chaos dark and rude
And bid its angry tumult cease
And give, for wild confusion, peace
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea
It was in the midst of that long, somber march, that the
slain President’s toddler son, John F. Kennedy Jr., gave his father’s
flag-draped coffin the formal salute he had been taught to do by his
daddy. It was his third birthday.
I don’t normally dwell on these things, nor do I think many
Americans alive to remember it ponder on it, either. It was an especially sad chapter in our nation’s oft-violent
history. But it lingers in our collective consciousness, and on this 50th
anniversary, I felt the need to open up.
Perhaps you have memories as well.
Feel free to share them…
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