Sunday, November 24, 2013

The Sunday Memory Drawer - The Pinnacle of Sunday Memories

Fifty years ago today, this happened.  About two seconds later, this happened.
The first photo was thought to be a real doozy.   Until the second one surfaced and then won the Pulitzer Prize.

Either way, this was a lot for us to handle as a country.  We were all still reeling from the devastating Friday before.  The day America changed forever.

The President of the United States was dead.  Shot in cold blood.  And little kids like me at the time couldn't comprehend it all.  Prior to the Kennedy White House, all the previous Presidents in our school books looked old.  They had beards.  They looked older than our own grandfathers. 

But John F. Kennedy and Jackie.  They looked like Mom and Dad.  They had two little children who are our own ages.  Heck, what a play date that would have been for all of us.

Maybe that's why these dates and that weekend a half century ago still haunt and occupy the memory bank of this youngster. 

On that Friday, we had taken one of those class trips.  You would walk arm in arm with your trip buddy in double file.  We had traversed about nine city blocks to the Mount Vernon Public Library.  Get the kids started early with a reading habit.  After all, books had words, not just pictures. 

Sometime before being presented with our first library cards, we noticed all the librarians huddled behind a counter.  Two of them were crying.  Had one of us put back a book on the wrong shelf?  Or was our little class simply too much to handle on one Friday afternoon?

We reassumed our double file order on the street outside for the walk back to Grimes School.  I remember the sound of church bells.  Had we been in the library that long?  Was it already Sunday?

As we passed through the Mount Vernon, New York shopping district, there was more scurrying around than usual.  It all seemed different.  As we passed several schools on our walk home, we saw flags being lowered to halfway down the pole.  What was happening?

When we were back at the school building, teachers were gathered in the hallway.  Some were crying, too.  Had news of our bad behavior in the library traveled that fast?  Was it me? Had I been the one who put the book back on the wrong shelf?

Seated in our class, our teacher Mrs. Ian told us what had happened in Dallas.  Even our small minds could process this big news.  A bad man had shot and killed President Kennedy.  And, in a bizarre way, we peppered Mrs. Ian with questions.

Were Caroline and John John all right?

Who is the new President?

Does he have any children?

We were relating to the news as only we could as kids. 

School was immediately dismissed on this Friday and, for this one time only, there was no cheer.  I scurried home to make sense of it all.  I wanted to be safely there with my family.

Of course, the first folks I ran into were my grandparents.  They always had an odd take on current events.  My grandmother was upset.

"My stories aren't on."

That figured.  My grandmother always said that John F. Kennedy was going to turn us into Catholics. As for my grandfather, seated with the Daily News on the kitchen table, he had his usual "go to" response whenever something bad happened to America.

"Communists."

From Presidential assassinations to the rise in beer prices, Grandpa was always suspecting a plot from the Soviet Union.

Like all of the nation and some of the world that day, we had our televisions on.  And stared at images of flag-draped coffins and blood-stained skirts and the creepy, skinny guy who may have caused this all. 

That night, I was happier than usual when both my parents had come home from work and we were all safely under one roof.  I tried to read my new library book in bed.  "Danny Dunn and the Homework Machine," I believe.  But I couldn't help but see that image of Lee Harvey Oswald before me.  I got scared and retreated to that lair where all frightened little kids go.

I pulled the covers over my head.

If you're were in the Northeast the next day, the weather outside fit your mood.  Dark and rainy and somber.  We, like millions of Americans, went through the motions.  Despite the lousy weather, my parents and I took a ride up Central Avenue to go shopping at the EJ Korvette's department store.  We weren't looking for anything in particular.  It was simply to get out of the house and away from the television which was repeating the same grimness over and over and over.

It was all a blur and suitably so.

Sunday, however, was bright and cold and windy.  I was advised early on that we would be dining out and that I would be getting dressed up.  Fancy eats for a Sunday dinner. 

But I was still home around noontime.  Laying on the floor in front of my grandparents' black and white television downstairs in their living room.  It was 12 o'clock so naturally Grandma and Grandpa were having their big dinner in the kitchen.  Dead President or not, they couldn't deviate from their regular schedule.

My eyes focused on a scuffle that enveloped the TV screen.  Now what?  Then I heard the words from a TV reporter.

"He's been shot.  Lee Oswald has been shot."

It was probably the only time in my life that I stood and ran in one simultaneous motion.  I relayed the news to my grandparents.  Grandma was munching on some cucumbers and sour cream.

"Now my stories won't be on tomorrow, either."

Grandpa?

"Communists."

More numbness overtook our world.  I had watched a murder on television.  This was clearly no Bugs Bunny cartoon.  Or Moe hitting Curly over the head with a wrench.  This was real. 

Our Sunday afternoon dinner that day was an event.  My father's cousin's husband was looking to buy an eating establishment.  He and his wife, my Aunt Ollie, had invited my parents along to see a place in Larchmont.  I was dragged along because...well...I was always dragged along.  On this day, I did not mind the expected loneliness.  Sipping a Coke in a corner while adults talked adult stuff.

This would not be a good day to see what this restaurant was like.  Except for the primed-to-sell owner and us, there was nobody there.  No one else had left their televisions.  Ultimately, we were able to sit there for hours in complete quiet.  Except for the sounds of the adult voices, it was all still.  No television.  No radio.  No newspaper.

No real world.

Of course, the starkness eventually came to their conversation as well.  Aunt Ollie was talking that our own Lutheran church would be having a special service tomorrow on what was now a national day of mourning.  She always treated me as an adult and, on this day, would be no different.

"Would you like to come with me?"

I nodded yes.  You would think that the notion of sitting through some boring church memorial would be a horrific thought for this little kid.  But, something inside of me made me want to go.  To participate in it all.  To say a special prayer for the Kennedy kids and the Johnson girls. 

Everybody, regardless of the age, needed to figure this all out.  But, in reality, I don't think any of us did.

We went back to school on Tuesday.  My folks returned to their jobs.  My dad's cousin ultimately bought a bar in the Bronx, not Larchmont.  Our lives went on.

Or did they?  Because, thinking about what happened this weekend a half century ago, it all seems like just yesterday.

Dinner last night: Roast beef sandwich.


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