1963: A National Tragedy Birthday

by Corinne H. Smith

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.

1959: The Cousins at Christmas

by Corinne H. Smith

1959:  I turned two years old.  Daddy was 30, 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 second birthday was “Mr. Blue” by The Fleetwoods.  Mom snapped this photograph. 

     My fraternal grandparents, Elmer and Annie Hosfeld, lived in Pennsylvania Dutch Country.  Their four-acre farm sat at the edge of Macungie in Lehigh County, not far from Allentown.  (I’ll write much more about the farm and its people in the days, weeks, and months ahead.)

     Here they raised three children:  Jeannette (b. 1923), Richard (b. 1925), and Lewis (my father, b. 1929).  These children eventually went off to school, got jobs, got married, and settled down in places that were a few driving hours away from Macungie and from each other.  They also brought about six grandchildren:  Lisa, Eric, Seth, Rich, Cheryl, and me. 

     In their 1950s, separate-but-equal, living-the-American-dream lives, the Hosfelds decided to reunite at the family farm in Macungie each December, to celebrate Christmas.  From this point on, the schedules of four households were coordinated so that fourteen individuals could successfully assemble in the same place at the same time.  The Christmas gatherings never occurred on December 25th, however.  They usually took place on a Saturday or Sunday before the big event.  Weather permitting, of course.

     When we’d arrive, the grown-ups would either help with the feast preparations, or they would sit and talk in the living room.  (Or in the case of my mother and Uncle Richard, argue loudly over politics.)  We cousins escaped, when we were old enough to know better.  We played in the barn or ran through the pine trees and down to the railroad tracks, where we waved to the engineers riding the Reading Railroad.  Or we’d walk into town.  Anything, to get away from the noise inside.

     This Civil-War-era brick farmhouse was “open concept” before the term was invented.  The dining room and the kitchen had no wall separating them.  For the big meal, all of the grown-ups sat at the usual dining room table.  A few feet away, the cousins sat in the kitchen, around a makeshift table outfitted with random chairs, and within arm’s reach of the sink and the stove.  All of us, that is, except for Lisa.  As the oldest cousin, she always got to sit at the grown-ups’ table.  Little did she realize that most of the talk in our small circle was aimed at her and this perceived injustice.  None of the rest of us ever graduated to that other room.

The cousins in 1959:  Rich, Cheryl, Eric, Corinne, Seth, Lisa

     Chicken was served, since it came right from the coop next to the barn.  Otherwise, the spread included what my father always described as “27 vegetables.”  We handed many dishes back and forth between the tables.  Only Uncle Richard breached the divide.  He’d call over to check on the eating habits of his oldest child.  “Rich, did you try the beets?”  “Rich, did you get enough stuffing?”  Otherwise, we young ones were left to our own devices.  In the end, there was always pie.

     After dinner came the Christmas carol performance.  The music began with Aunt Jeannette on piano, Uncle Richard on trombone, and my father on flute.  Everyone else sang along.  When we cousins got older, we were added to the ensemble.  Lisa on clarinet, Rich on saxophone, Cheryl on baritone, me on flute.  Seth and Eric, whatever or if they wanted to play.  Our grandparents and the in-laws sat and listened and sang.

     As the music wound down, we’d offer presents to our grandparents.  A box of chocolates was always a welcomed gift.  Then Grandpa would hand each grandchild a holiday bank envelope containing a crisp uncirculated dollar bill, or perhaps even a new five.  When Aunt Jeannette began distributing the Dramamine to Lisa, Eric, and Seth, for the ride back to northern New Jersey, we knew it was nearly time to leave.  We said our goodbyes and drove off in three separate directions.  We weren’t likely to come together again as a group for another full year.

     The Hosfeld Christmas reunions came to an end in the early 1980s.  Grandma died in 1980, and Grandpa followed her in 1983.  Uncle Richard’s family had taken over the family farm property.  But by now it took even more planning to gather everyone, since we Baby Boomers had gone off to school and were beginning to get jobs and to get married.  Some of us relocated farther away than a one-day drive from Macungie.  We saw each other only as traveling circumstances permitted, or at funerals.  Or not at all.

     And that’s the way it’s been for us six cousins, ever since.  But we’ll always have the memories of the Macungie Christmases:  the dinners, the music, and the brief time shared together around the kid’s table in the kitchen.  Sorry, Lisa.  You missed most of the fun.