My Recollections: November 22, 1963 -- The JFK Assassination

All the attention surrounding the 50^th anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination in Dallas, TX finds me watching all the TV programs, both new and old, about the greatest murder mystery of the 20^th century.  The memories come flooding back.  Nothing like this had ever happened in my time, my parents time, not even my grandparents time.

I have heard it described by psychologists as the greatest mass culture shock and grieving exercise that has ever occurred.  There had never been an event of such global significance that was broadcast on TV – relayed to the masses with such speed and in such visual detail. 

One therapist, in a movie I viewed in a psychology class, explained that it was imprinted into our minds like nothing ever before.  He said that people who had had severe brain trauma, like in a car accident, and had total amnesia -- couldn’t remember their own name, their family, nothing at all -- would be shown pictures of the assassination by therapists, in an attempt to spark any memories, and be able to recount the events with complete clarity and precision.

This is my story:

Friday, November 22, 1963, Florence Elementary School, Omaha, NE: 

For me, it was a normal Friday in Mrs. (Victoria) Corey’s 4^th grade class.  I was in my chair in the third row from the east wall, in our classroom in the west wing of the “new” Florence School, that we had just moved into the previous year.  It was incredibly modern compared to the old red brick schoolhouse that we came from, a building where my grandfather had attended school at some point.  There were modern green “blackboards”.  The east classroom wall was all cupboard storage made of blonde wood; the west wall was all windows that looked out to a large playground field.  There was a modern cafeteria that doubled as an assembly hall with a stage.  We were working an assignment, with our usual instructions to do our work with NO TALKING. 

Florence Elementary School, Omaha

The school custodian, Mr. Tubbs, poked his head in the door, as he often did.  I think Mrs. Corey used to head down to his room to catch a smoke and gossip and get a break from us.  You never knew if your teachers smoked, supposedly none did, but we had it on good authority that Mrs. Corey did (someone’s mom had seen her at a local social club, and tattled to her child).  She was outspoken and plain talking compared to most of the teachers, and you didn’t want to get on her bad side, lest she embarrass you in a loud voice in front of your classmates.  She was a bit more human and “real” than some of the more stern and mysterious teachers at our school.

When Mr. Tubbs would poke his head in the door, Mrs. Corey would go out of the room to talk with him.  Of course, you never knew how quickly she would come back, so you always waited a good while before uttering any sounds.  Today, she came back in fairly quickly.  Right away, she said, “Mr. Tubbs just told me he heard on the radio that somebody shot at President Kennedy.  I’m going to leave for a while.  You people keep working and NO TALKING.” 

We did as she said.  It was a classic Nebraska winter day, cold with a heavy overcast, with a lot of snow on the ground.  Mrs. Corey was gone longer than usual, maybe ten or fifteen minutes. 

When she came back, she said, “There’s something going on.  I’m going to turn the radio on so we can hear the news.”  She went to a cupboard at the back of the room and got out a radio, one none of us knew was there.  I don’t believe teachers of that era were big believers in multi-media communications.  We had just begun using TV in classrooms on a very limited basis.  Sometimes the teacher might try it an hour or two a week, or not at all.  It was completely up to the teacher.  TV was still thought of as something that should be rationed to children in the home.

She plugged in the radio and tuned in a station.  We began to hear the fractious news reports immediately.  There was urgency in the announcer’s voice, and no semblance of the regular music/talk/commercial radio format of the time.  There was a lot of confusion.  I don’t think anyone wanted to believe that the president had actually been shot, let alone killed. Of course, everyone stopped working on assignments and just paid attention to what we were hearing.  The reports were all initially optimistic – that Kennedy had, “…possibly been wounded…” and had been taken to a hospital.

Today, the era of Camelot has been documented and discussed thoroughly, but to have been young during that time was something special.  America was on the rise.  We felt proud and powerful – we were the BEST in the world.  Now, we had a new leader that our parents identified with, a handsome guy who had a pretty wife and a couple little kids.  He talked tough to the Communists and we liked that.  He talked about civil rights.  Some folks liked that, and I guess some didn’t, but as children, who always feel their rights are being violated by their parents, we liked it.  There was a heady spirit all around.  We were going up – in jets, to the sky, to the moon, even farther.  Kennedy had made this promise and it seemed like his aura was fueling our accomplishments.

The radio reporters kept up the chatter, cutting away to correspondents now and then.  The minutes passed and the reports were less and less optimistic.  Finally, the network cut away to a report from Dallas.  A deep, stern voice said, “The president…of the United States…is dead.”

Instantly, two of the children sitting next to me, one boy and one girl, burst into tears and began to sob out loud, heavily.  I remember their names (Arvard Bertrand – a hard one to forget -- and Teresa Barrett).  They were both friends of mine and there was a unique thing about them – they were both Catholic.  I remember that it shocked me a bit, to see them just crack and suddenly become so completely emotional. 

There was, looking back, a substantial division between religions in my little borough (the area known as Florence, which had once been a town, and was now a northern suburb of Omaha).  

Historic Bank of Florence building

The Catholic kids, most of them, went to a different school, St. Phillip Neri, and we didn’t fraternize much.  Kennedy was Catholic, the first ever to be President.  I remember the talk of this among adults.  I didn’t know what the big divide was all about, but I knew that the Catholics were somehow different and were held apart from the circles my parents ran in.  My grandmother had been raised Catholic, but converted to the Lutheran faith when she married my grandfather. 

The Catholic kids bursting into tears was the first crack in the emotional dyke.  Soon a lot of kids were sobbing.  I think I did, a little bit.  Certainly, there was a huge pall over the room and radio kept blaring more and more details of how the shooting happened, etc.  Of course, there was no Internet, not even any TV in school, so all we got were spotty details.  Having the radio on was highly unusual.  It had never been on before.

The principal, Mrs. Tate, appeared in the door and spoke to Mrs. Corey, then left and reappeared several times.  Everyone was in shock.  One has to remember that we lived, in those days, in constant fear that the Russians were coming – to make us “communists”.  The Cuban missile crisis had been resolved only a short time earlier.  The USAF Strategic Air Command (“SAC”, as everyone called it) headquarters was about a 30 minute drive from my home, and we all thought we would be targeted in the event of war.  Was this killing of our leader, the man who stood up to Khrushchev, the beginning of war?  I think a lot of us thought it could be.

Finally, the principal came back one more time, talked with Mrs. Corey, and left.  Mrs. Corey made an announcement.  “We’re going home early.  School is going to be closed until next week.”  Wow.  School NEVER closed!  This was big. 

She maintained her usual control of the room, but spoke with an air of resignation, saying, “Just put what you were working on in the basket (a file basket for completed work), and close up your desk.”  Wow…that never happened either!  I mean, just turn in your paper, incomplete?  I remember that she comforted some of the children that were most visibly upset.

Everyone did as they were told.  We had lockers in the hallway of the new school, not the old fashioned “cloak room” like we had had a year before at the old school.  We got our stuff and said our goodbyes.  It was really strange to be leaving so early.  Unlike today, there was no secure “handoff” of children to parents.  We were simply turned out, into the winter weather, to go home on our own.

Once we were outside, in the cold and snow, I started walking with one of my classmates, Jerran Jackson.  He was a friendly little guy, a good bit smaller than me, with glasses and straight brown hair.  His father was our Cub Scoutmaster.  I don’t think either of us knew what to do with this sudden freedom that had been bestowed on us.  We traded a few thoughts about the president and what had happened, then he asked me, “Wanna come to my house and play?”  I said, “Sure!” and we set off in a different direction than I would have gone if I had been headed straight home. 

We tramped through the ice and snow.  We were no strangers to this kind of trek and we had on our big rubber “four-bucklers” as they were called, big black overshoes that were always a huge hassle to get on and off.  They did a good job of keeping your feet dry.  I remember the landmark innovation some mother came upon of putting a plastic bag over your shoe before you put it in your rubber boot – it made it glide on like it had been greased with butter!  Bless her.

I don’t remember what all we talked about on the walk to his place, which must have been about a mile.  I remember it was cold and we were alone.  I was happy I had someone to walk with.  I don’t know if children make these kinds of treks anymore. 

When we got to his place, he told his mother that he had brought me home to play.  She said it was fine, that we could go play down in the basement.  Now, we had to decide what we wanted to play. 

In those days, NASA and the space program was the hot thing, and “Astronauts” had become a popular playtime, replacing playing “Cowboys” and “Army” (later replaced by “Green Berets”).  So, there was a big cardboard box in his basement, like from an appliance, and we used it as our spacecraft and used some of his dad’s tools that were laying around for our astronaut gear.  The minds of children are fertile ground.  (We kept our coats on, because it was cold in the basement.  I remember getting home and finding a wrench, which I’m sure had been some sort of “ray gun”, in my coat pocket.)

After some time, I sensed that it was time for me to go home.  I don’t know why, I guess it just knew that my mom would be expecting me.  I told my friend goodbye and started walking.  I remember it was overcast and very cold, with a lot of snow on the ground and a lot of humidity – it felt like it could snow again at any minute.  I had to walk about 8 blocks.  Jerran lived at 31^st and Sheffield Sts. – my house was at 31^st and Tucker. 

Except for the snow, only one thing about my walk home stands out.  Everything was quite familiar and unremarkable, but then I passed right by St. Phillip Neri Catholic School.  It had a flagpole right out in front.  There was no wind, the air was very damp, and the flag was just hanging down, kind of wrapped around the pole.  I remember looking at it and thinking, “That flag doesn’t look right.  Why didn’t they raise it up all the way?  That looks really sloppy!”  I had never seen a flag at half-staff before, and had no idea what it meant, but I was about to see a lot of them and learn of their significance.

St. Phillip Neri School, and the flagpole

I let myself in the house, and I thought it was strange that my mom was not around.  She was usually in the kitchen or the living room when I got home.  I went down the hallway and opened my parent’s bedroom door, and I found her in bed with her pajamas on.  I said, “Mom!  President Kennedy was shot!”  She gave me the same answer she gives me when I tell her something today, “I know that!”  HA!  She had come down with the flu and was resting.

I think she didn’t want me to catch what she had, so I was sent to my grandma and grandpa’s home.  The only detail missing in my memory is how I got there.  I don’t know if my grandpa came to get me, or if my dad came home from work and took me down there.  Regardless, for the next three or four days, I would be camped out at their house on 21^st and Ames Ave., sitting in front of the TV to witness every detail of the ceremonies, the murder of Lee Harvey Oswald in real time, the funeral and the constant commentary from the newsmen of the day.

For the first time I had ever in my life, TV stayed on 24 hours a day, and I was allowed to stay up pretty late.  Grandpa was working as a firefighter, so he went to work and was gone for 24 hours and then came home.  Grandma and I didn’t leave the house, and we sat up late in the evening watching. 

One of the days, I was upstairs and my grandma had gone down the basement to do some laundry.  She had turned the radio on down there so she could hear the latest. For some reason I had taken a break from the non-stop TV coverage.  Suddenly, grandma called out, “Scott, go look at the TV!  They shot that Oswald fellow!”  Thinking she had lost her marbles, I called back, “No grandma!  President Kennedy was shot!  Oswald shot President Kennedy!”  She called back to me, “No!  Go look at the TV…someone just shot Oswald!  I just heard it on the radio!”  I made a beeline for the TV, and sure enough, she was right.  Since the cameras had caught the whole thing on videotape, it was replayed over and over again.  Of course this turn of events added even more to the incredulity of the day.

There was nothing on the TV or radio but news associated with the assassination.  Occasionally, the local stations would break in with news relevant to Omaha, but afterward it would go right back to the network coverage of JFK.  There were hours and hours of footage of citizens filing by the casket in the Capitol rotunda.  The honor guards would stand at attention for 5 minutes, then switch to “parade rest” for a period.  There would be a formal changing of the guard, periodically.  I remember seeing the funeral, and the famous “salute” by JFK Jr. in “real time”. 

I have replayed the funeral march in my mind a thousand or more times over the last 50 years.  I remember that it was much like a parade, but with only the ominous beat of muffled drums.  I can hear the precise cadence distinctly. (Boom, boom, boom – roll – boom, boom, boom – roll – boom, boom, boom – roll – boom, boom, BOOM-BOOM!)

JFK Procession Crossing Memorial Bridge to Arlington Cemetery

I remember the horse drawn carriage – I had never witnessed a military funeral – and the fly-over of jets, including Air Force One.  The bugler played Taps.  I was a young trumpet player, so this was especially significant, particularly because the bugler stuttered when he played the sixth note (like I used to).  I couldn’t believe it.  My mother later told me that she had read that the bugler said he was quite embarrassed, but was overcome with emotion and had huge tears running down his face as he played.  We gave him a pass.

Army Bugler Keith Clark, 3rd US Infantry Regiment -- The "Old Guard"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=q2h3z3Jqqo0
View Clark's "Taps" at this link

Finally, at the very end, the big surprise came -- The lighting of the “Eternal Flame”.  There had been no mention of this in the media, no announcement by the government.  How they had conceived this icon in the matter of a couple of days no one knew.  Everyone quickly theorized that it symbolized the passage from his inaugural speech, “The torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans…”, which went on to extend an invitation and a warning to other countries that we were ready to be friends, and also to fight for our freedom.

Eventually, somehow, the whirlwind of this all died down, and life went back to a normal routine.  I left my grandparents and went home.  We went back to school, the TV went back to regular programming.  Life went on, but it was never the same.  This might have been my first realization that “life goes on” if you are left alive, no matter what kind of drama or misfortune has befallen you.  I would have others to come.

We had lost our innocence; Camelot was over, Vietnam, already underway, would soon be an everyday headline.  The excitement of space exploration gave way to “body counts” and killed-in-action notices in the hometown paper.

At least I got to experience those heady years, when it seemed like America was running stronger and faster every day, and that there was no stopping us.  We were flying to space at jet speed and we were the greatest country that had ever been.  We had a dynamic leader and a first lady that were “movie star” glamorous.  Hero astronauts were orbiting the earth.  Wages were up and possibilities were endless.  Then, in a moment, it all changed.  We survived, we still managed to have fun, but our course was forever altered, and we had dark destinations ahead.

Scott J. Barry -- Leesburg, VA -- November 14, 2013