I remember the day so clearly. I was ten days shy of my eleventh birthday and was sitting at my desk, trying to concentrate during Catechism Class where we were preparing for Confirmation. There was a knock on the door and Mother Mary Catherine walked in. Mother, a tall, pale woman of ethereal beauty, was a woman of firm convictions. As Principal, she conducted the affairs of our school according to the strict dictates of the Franciscan order: she was strict; she was controlled; she was the consummate nun.
I knew the minute she walked into our classroom that something was wrong. A trill ran along the nerves of my arms, causing the fine hairs to stand on end. Mother Mary Catherine, the stalwart, the formidable, was crying. Facing our class, hands clasped before her, she whispered: "President Kennedy has been shot. We must go to the church to pray."
There was a moment of stunned silence. Numbly, we stumbled to our feet and, seizing rosaries and prayer books, walked, single-file, to the nearby church.
I loved my church. I loved everything about it: its pink mural-painted dome; gilded plaster separating its soaring arch into sections where Michelangelo-inspired angels soared majestically above; the marble altar depicting the Last Supper; the columned communion railing in matching stone, and the musky smell of incense, which always calmed my heart. I would breathe deeply of it, savoring the feeling of awe and the sensation of something bigger than myself that it unfailingly inspired.
Drawing my rosary from my sweater pocket, I knelt upon the padded kneeler and drew the well-known scent into my lungs. This time there was no calming. I was frightened. President John F. Kennedy, our own JFK, the King of Camelot, had been shot and my world appeared to be falling apart.
I leaned forward against the back of the pew in front of me, pressing my breastbone against the polished wood, hoping that the pressure would ease the ache I felt within my heart. I began to say the rosary, passing the shiny beads through my fingers as I completed each prayer. The sound of the beads clicking together was a comforting sound and I began, finally, to calm a little.
It felt as if we prayed for hours. There was a rustle of robes, the clack of black rosary beads as my teacher, Sister Cecile, slowly rose, crossing herself as she did so. She walked to the first pew, which held the members of my class, and signaled that we were to leave. We stood and, once again in single-file, left the dim church, exiting out of the side door and stepping into the rose garden and bright sunlight.
I remember the sunlight so vividly. I remember the feel of the sun on my face, blinking my eyes to adjust to the intense light, gazing over to the garden to seek out my favorite rosebush. Instead, my eyes fell upon Mother Mary Catherine. She walked slowly toward us, Monsignor beside her, his large hand cupping her elbow. I was struck by the fact that both were weeping and I felt the sun leave.
"President Kennedy is dead," Monsignor rasped.
My memory, from that moment until I found myself walking home, is almost dreamlike. I was in shock, as we all were. I do remember gazing up into the sky, a sky now dark with clouds, and seeing a group of planes in a V formation. I watched as one of the planes veered off, leaving a gap in what had been a perfect V. When I asked my stepfather, he explained that what I had witnessed was the "Missing Man Formation," a tradition that had started in Britain. Pilots would fly their planes in a V formation and one would spiral away, leaving a hole where a plane, or missing man, should be. So these pilots had done, in honor of JFK.
The rest is dim; none of my memories being as vivid as of those first few hours. There is, however, this crazy slide-show in my brain that sometimes plays over and over again as memories race to try to piece together those days of national grieving. I remember people weeping in public. I remember going to the grocery store and seeing men and women suddenly pulling out hankies, pressing them to their eyes. I remember walking down the street and gazing into the barbershop only to see the proprietor, shoulders heaving, face in hands, weeping.
I remember the four days of television coverage and the day Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald on live TV. I remember Walter Cronkite. I remember the film of the actual assassination; Jackie climbing to the back of the limo; the people standing along the road weeping.
I remember Jackie and Caroline kissing the coffin. I remember the funeral. I remember John-John saluting his father. I remember the rider less horse with the stirrups pointing backwards. I remember the Eternal Flame.
It was a sad time, a black time. A time when I became aware that even the strong could be cut down. It was a time to weep, not just for the death of a man, but for a way of life that was gone forever. It was the end of innocence, the end...of Camelot.
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