As Sad Anniversaries Go

Town flag at half staff to honor the Paris terrorism victims

It is now the middle of three tragically defining moments in American history where none of us who were over the age of 6 will ever forget, right down to the tiniest mundane details.

The stunning sneak attack on Pearl Harbor forever branded December 7th as a "date which will live in infamy."

Just as 9/11 will forever be remembered as the most shocking, sad and frightening event in over a generation.

Fifty two years ago on a most typical Friday in late November, as the Kennedy motorcade ambled through Dealey Plaza, shots were fired.  Two of them found their mark.

The world, or maybe just our little part of it, stopped. 

Overpowering sadness descended from sea to shining sea.  As a naive 8-year-old I wondered when that gloom would lift.

Today, 52 years later, I still wonder.

A Half Century Ago ...

The ornate condolence certificate, autographed by the President, arrived two months after the sudden death of my father—a combat veteran who helped overthrow the Japanese in the Philippines but never discussed it with any of his four inquisitive children.

That letter brought radiance into our home on an otherwise dreary late November day.

So, suddenly transformed into a proud 8-year-old, I pestered my mother for the honor of bringing the document to school the following day. My pragmatic Irish mother denied the request--worried I could lose or damage the precious parchment.

Friday began as unremarkable as a hundred before: Morning prayers chanted effortlessly, the Pledge of Allegiance parroted as we stood with our right hands over our hearts facing an American flag.

I was having trouble concentrating on the curriculum, typical for a Friday when the weekend beckoned. But this time all I could think about was a letter that had arrived just yesterday from a revered man who could have met my father less than a generation ago.

With only an hour of captivity remaining, a high-school boy suddenly entered from the right door bearing a message. Snatching the note from his hand the nun appeared almost angry at the interruption. I could, however, see her face suddenly turn white—matching the mask-like habit all ‘Sisters of St. Joseph’ wore.

She crumpled the memo with one hand while reaching back to grab her desk with the other, slumping as though absorbing a blow from a heavyweight boxer. With a trembling voice she said, “Please stand.” Although puzzled, we responded immediately.

“Now extend your arms sideway, shoulder high, and hold them there,” she said still struggling to gain control. So there we stood, 26 of us, rooted near our desks like cemetery crosses wondering, as our shoulders started to ache, what could possible cause such a break in routine?

She regained the commanding voice of authority to announce, “President Kennedy has just been shot” Tears trickled down her cheeks as she concluded, “He needs our prayers.”

At St. Michael’s school in the year of our Lord 1963, President John F. Kennedy was fourth on the list of most beloved: just under the Holy Trinity and tied with Pope John. And in my home he was tied for second with St. Patrick just under my recently deceased father.

The big yellow bus rumbled back to Amherst with an interior as quiet as a crypt. The astonishing event blurred short-term memory like one too many drinks. I began to question whether the letter from the now martyred leader was actually real, or did I simply imagine it?

Bursting thru the front door I quickly spied the prized possession lying on a cluttered kitchen table. With relief and reverence I held it aloft, taking in the brilliant gold calligraphy etched on a pure white background: “It is with deepest sympathy…”

A feeling the entire nation now shared.

Originally published 11/22/07

49 Years

My dad was only 49 years old when he passed away suddenly in the dead of night the second week of September,  49 years ago.  He had come home from a job uncharacteristically early that day, a mid-week school day, after whacking his head particularly hard while working in cramped dark quarters -- rather routine conditions for a plumber.  He died from a cerebral hemorrhage.
 
Forty nine years ago today, as he rode in an open car down a Dallas street before a huge throng of adoring fans, President John F. Kennedy was fired upon in sudden spectacular fashion.  Television news was still relatively new compared to radio and newspapers, with the Internet not yet even born.

But television came into its own during those dark days. The urgent initial reports from numerous eyewitnesses confirmed that the President had been grievously wounded in the head.  One CBS reporter in Dallas quoted a surgeon from Parkland Hospital who was in tears saying the president was gone, but the reporter still dutifully used the word "unconfirmed". 

Walter Cronkite, the must trusted man in America, confirmed the horrible, shocking truth that seemed to momentarily stun even him, a consummate professional.   And for next few days tearful Americans huddled in front of their grainy, black-and-white televisions, sharing their grief.

Even now, 49 years later, I can still remember the anguish.  The overpowering anguish.

Bad news travels fast

From the archives: (Yeah, scary to think I now have archives) The first shot rang out at 12:30 PM, the first bulletin made national news at 12:31 PM, and by the time Walter Cronkite announced to a mesmerized nation an hour later that their leader was dead, 68% of Americans had heard about the shooting, not a single one via the Internet.

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The ornate condolence certificate, autographed by the President, arrived two months after the sudden death of my father—a combat veteran who helped overthrow the Japanese in the Philippines but never discussed it with any of his four inquisitive children.

That letter brought radiance into our home on an otherwise dreary late November day.

So, suddenly transformed into a proud 8-year-old, I pestered my mother for the honor of bringing the document to school the following day. My pragmatic Irish mother denied the request--worried I could lose or damage the precious parchment.

Friday began as unremarkable as a hundred before: Morning prayers chanted effortlessly, the Pledge of Allegiance parroted as we stood with our right hands over our hearts facing an American flag.

I was having trouble concentrating on the curriculum, typical for a Friday when the weekend beckoned. But this time all I could think about was a letter that had arrived just yesterday from a revered man who could have met my father less than a generation ago.

With only an hour of captivity remaining, a high-school boy suddenly entered from the right door bearing a message. Snatching the note from his hand the nun appeared almost angry at the interruption. I could, however, see her face suddenly turn white—matching the mask-like habit all ‘Sisters of St. Joseph’ wore.

She crumpled the memo with one hand while reaching back to grab her desk with the other, slumping as though absorbing a blow from a heavyweight boxer. With a trembling voice she said, “Please stand.” Although puzzled, we responded immediately.

“Now extend your arms sideway, shoulder high, and hold them there,” she said still struggling to gain control. So there we stood, 26 of us, rooted near our desks like cemetery crosses wondering, as our shoulders started to ache, what could possible cause such a break in routine?

She regained the commanding voice of authority to announce, “President Kennedy has just been shot” Tears trickled down her cheeks as she concluded, “He needs our prayers.”

At St. Michael’s school in the year of our Lord 1963, President John F. Kennedy was fourth on the list of most beloved: just under the Holy Trinity and tied with Pope John. And in my home he was tied for second with St. Patrick just under my recently deceased father.

The big yellow bus rumbled back to Amherst with an interior as quiet as a crypt. The astonishing event blurred short-term memory like one too many drinks. I began to question whether the letter from the now martyred leader was actually real, or did I simply imagine it?

Bursting through the front door I quickly spied the prized possession lying on a cluttered kitchen table. With relief and reverence I held it aloft, taking in the brilliant gold calligraphy etched on a pure white background: “It is with deepest sympathy…”

A feeling the entire nation now shared.

Originally published 11/22/07