This appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle website. Partially redacted, my spouses take on the day: I lived in a small ranching community in [the] West [...] in 1963. There was Catholic church at the foot of the hill below the school and a community hall where, among other things, everyone voted and where three years earlier in 1960, my dad had taken me into the voting booth with him. He explained the importance of voting and “we” filled out his paper ballot. He gave it to me and showed me how to put it in the ballot box. As I did, the Republican election judge said, “______, how did ‘we’ vote?” Before my dad could stop me, I yelled out “Kennedy! Farther down the road, with houses scattered along it was the general store, post office, and gas station that my godfather ran. The town had a two-room school up on the hill to the road going up the valley. During the lunch hour on November 22, 1963, all the students were playing in the lower schoolyard overlooking town. I noticed my godfather barreling up the road in his car, honking his horn. He then came to a screeching halt in front of the church. He ran up the steps and started ringing the church bell frantically. About this time, the school bell started ringing, yet lunch wasn’t over. Then I started hearing nearby ranch’s meal bells ringing to summon everyone in from their work, yet it was well after lunch. As we approached the school, I saw the two teachers standing on the porch sobbing and when all 48 students were assembled, the youngest teacher announced that the President had been shot. Though neither teacher was Catholic, they led all of us down the hill to the church. By this time, there were cars and trucks coming from every direction headed for that small church. My godfather led us all in prayer saying the rosary … a vigil for the President. Someone stayed outside, listening to a car radio for news bulletins. Suddenly, that person ran up the steps and started tolling the “death keel” and a collective cry went up from all the assembled community as my godfather started saying the Lord’s Prayer, “Our Father, who art in heaven….” The President was dead. Days later, I saw and remember from television the black veils, the widow’s weeds, the caisson, the rider-less horse with the backward boots, and John-John’s salute. I wept for him because I knew we had not only lost our President, but our fathers that terrible year. For you see, my own dad died earlier in 1963, also from a bullet.
Posted on: Sun, 24 Nov 2013 21:47:13 +0000
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