As I write this, our nation is preparing to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the assassination of President Kennedy. Since we now live in the Dallas area, that historic event is in the news on a daily basis. I often drive down Houston Street past the former Book Depository Building, which now holds the JFK Museum. I can't see the grassy knoll and not think about the events that took place there. There is a mark in the street at the spot where the presidential limousine was at the time the shot was fired.
I was a senior in high school on November 22, 1963. It was the seventh period and I was in a study hall in the school library. Miss Belk, our school counselor, came in and made the announcement. "The President is dead." My first memory is of how quiet the school hallway was as we went to clean out our lockers and head home for the weekend. After school activities were cancelled, so a couple of my friends asked if they could have rides home. A second impression is how different everything felt as we moved through the street. On some street corners people just stood stunned.
When I arrived home my dad was waiting in the driveway. His office had closed early and he had taken the bus home. His first words to me, "Church will be full on Sunday." I must have had a puzzled look. My dad had lived through World War II and knew that in a time of national crisis people turned to their faith.
I was a paperboy during my high school days. I delivered the morning paper, The Detroit Free Press. I woke up at five every morning and delivered over one hundred and fifty papers. The morning of November 23, 1963 is etched in my mind, for a number of reasons. I was still in shock, and on top of that the weather was eerie. Heavy storms had moved through the previous evening and the streets were littered with tree limbs and other debris. The clouds were heavy and ominous, almost like in a Hitchcock movie. In addition to my normal papers, an additional fifty copies of the morning edition had been left at our doorstep, with a note that I was to sell them on a street corner after I had completed my route. Within fifteen minutes of arriving at the corner of East Warren and Outer Drive, the papers were gone.
Our family stayed glued to the television over the next three days. It was like Walter Cronkite became part of our family. Along with the rest of the nation, we mourned. My parents were not democrats, but that did not stop us from grieving, especially as we saw the Presidents children. Even my favorite radio station, WXYZ, played somber music rather than the usual top forty hits. My father was correct: the church was full on Sunday. I can still picture chairs lining the aisle and in the narthex.
If you lived through the events of 11/22/63, I am sure you too have memories. I sincerely believe that it is important to share them with those who were not alive at that pivotal moment in our nations history. In my blog next week I will share why that event was pivotal for me and why I think it was a turning point for our nation as well.
Passing the torch does not just mean the legacy of faith, but our national heritage as well.
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