I was in third grade at St. Ann School but stayed home that day, sick with some kind of childhood bug. My mother had brought the portable TV to my room so I could watch "Queen for a Day," "The Price is Right" and the "Loretta Young Show" which I only watched because it seemed racy. Mom had just brought me her signature "sick day" orangeade on the special bed tray, when a special bulletin came on the air. "President Kennedy has been shot...." I called out for her: "Motherrrr!!" I must have sounded panic-stricken because she ran up the stairs and, together, we watched the tragedy unfold, crying on my little bed. (I didn't realize until today, that she had left my baby brother and sister downstairs, unattended for who knows how long. I'm assuming they were in the playpen.) Although my mother was a Republican, we were Catholic and deeply enamored with JFK and the first family...if not for substance, for style, in my case. (I was 7. What did I know of politics?) The rest of that day is a blur, as are the days that followed except for the funeral procession and that heartbreaking little salute of John-John's.
I remember being struck that Caroline was my little sister's age and John-John, my other little sister's. It was the first time I think my young brain realized that not everyone gets to live to a ripe old age. And what kind of monster would kill the father of two little kids?
How do you remember that day?