1963: I turned six years old. President John F. Kennedy was assassinated on
this day. I was in Mrs. Earhart's first
grade class at Farmdale
Elementary School.
Daddy was 34, and he worked as a research chemist at Armstrong Cork Company in
Lancaster, Penna. Mom was a stay-at-home Mom. We lived on Hathaway Street in West Hempfield
Township. The #1
song on the radio on my sixth birthday was “Deep Purple” by Nino Tempo &
April Stevens. Mom snapped this
photograph. We may have been on our way
to or from church, on the following Sunday.
The day I turned six was the day our American president was
assassinated in Dallas.
Mom used to tell the story.
She was in the middle of baking my birthday cake when she heard Walter
Cronkite’s announcement come over the television in the living room. (The very same set that Daddy and I always
posed in front of, for the birthday photos.)
Mom ran out the back door and down to our neighbors’ house to tell
them. Later she couldn’t remember
whether or not she’d even closed the refrigerator door, in her rush. I assume that she was merely in the process
of mixing ingredients, and that the cake had not yet been put in the oven. Burning the cake or setting the house on fire
wasn’t part of her tale.
Admittedly, I don’t remember that day at all. I do remember watching the funeral on
television: watching little John John
salute his father, watching little Caroline standing by. I’m only five days older than Caroline, so I often
wondered what the situation was like for her.
The photographic retrospective book Four Days was released on January 1, 1964. My Aunt Bert gave me a copy of it a few
months later, and we shelved it in the bookcase next to our fireplace. I don’t think we ever really paged through
it. It was just something that needed to
be there. I used to feel some kind of
eerie connection whenever my fingers touched it, mostly when I was searching
for one of my nearby story books. I
still have this copy of Four Days;
its once white cover, now browned with age.
I guess I could say the same of myself.
My parents weren’t fans of the Kennedys. Mom was a diehard Republican. Daddy was a registered Democrat who often
sided with the other side. As two
conservatives born and bred in the Lutheran church, they weren’t overly fond of
Catholics, either. Still, they were naturally
appalled by the assassination. If that could happen in America, anything could.
Every year after that, amidst remnants of gift wrap and
mouthfuls of cake, I was subjected to hearing anniversary accounts: some from
the people around me, and many more from TV, radio and newspapers. Mom would tell the cake and refrigerator
story. It's tough to be merry and
celebratory whenever everyone around you is soberly reminiscing about where
they were when. It's enough to make a birthday girl feel like an
intruder at her own party. And a real heel to even expect a party in the first
place.
As a result of this overload, I usually avoid additional exposure to JFK-related
stuff. I haven’t seen Oliver Stone’s
movie. I didn’t read any JFK books,
fiction or nonfiction, until Stephen King’s novel, 11/22/63, came out in 2012. With
that title, how could I resist? I’m
pleased to say that it is a truly fabulous
work. And a long one, too. I may even need to read it again someday. (You can find my review of the book
here.)
On September 11, 2001, I saw the World Trade
Center towers fall via
television. In the midst of the shock waves
swirling around me, I overheard a co-worker mourn, “How could this happen today?”
It turned out to be her birthday.
That’s when I thought to myself -- yes, perhaps a bit crassly -- Now we are off the hook. We 11-22ers can pass the responsibility of
national tragedy birthday holders onto you, 9-11s. Time has helped to fade the fabric of past
loss. November 22 may be on its way to
becoming a normal day again.
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