The Assassination of JFK: A Thanksgiving Remembrance

by Brynda L. Hiller        

My father always said, “That if you live long enough you’ll live through many things-both happy and sad-but remember you will live through it”.

Mine came on Friday afternoon on Nov. 22 in 1963. It began as any other Friday. It was the last day of school and we were all itching to get our day over with and get to our weekend. Especially this weekend. This was the weekend before Thanksgiving and  next week we had only three days of school. With the last day being a half-day at that — we would have apple cider and donuts — then we would have that Thursday and Friday and the whole weekend off. To a kid, that was a big deal and something to look forward to. Lots of food, friends, family, fun and no school. You could do a lot of living in those four days.

I was a kid growing up in New York and the tinge of cold in the air mixed with snow flurries just added to the excitement and anticipation. It was that special time of year-between Thanksgiving and the New Year-the dream time. Thanksgiving and the upcoming holiday season meant lots of food, the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, pictures taken with Santa and shopping for Christmas presents, ice skating, fresh baked cookies, eggnog, the smell of fresh pine, TV specials with Perry Como and Andy Williams., Christmas vacation. Ah, this was the start of the season of enchantment...the dreamtime.

I went through the day just praying for 3 p.m. to come. We sailed blissfully through our classes, finally lunch and then………………we hit the rocks. I remember the crackle of the antiquated loud speaker and the raw edge in the principal's always well-measured voice telling us that we needed to assemble in the auditorium. There was the hushed voices of my classmates and our teachers yelling “Everyone to the auditorium NOW!” We were used of this type of drill. This was a safety drill. Had to be a drill. Right? At least that was the general thought. We scrambled to fill the seats as the squeak of shoes on the hardwood floors filled the room.

Mrs. Moss, the principals' secretary broke in ”boys, girls, settle down. Settle down. Everyone, quiet.” A hush fell over the auditorium. “We have some very, very sad news to tell you.”

None of us could fathom what was coming next. Not in a million years. Our principal took two steps to the podium and said: "We have just learned from the mayor’s office that the president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy is dead. He was assassinated…shot in Dallas, Texas this afternoon as he and…...the First Lady were visiting…...” Mouths fell open but only silence. He continued….more silence. By the middle of his speech, there were audible gasps of “Oh, no” — “I don’t believe it”  — “Why?”  — “What?”

Looks of total disbelief. Then sounds of crying.

He continued to speak but I never heard the rest of it. I had become suddenly deaf. Mouths were moving and words were being spoken, but I could neither hear nor understand them.

Images of the healthy vibrant President — tall, smiling with blue eyes and hair the color of ginger snap cookies; the father of those two adorable children and the husband of a dark haired beauty named Jackie; playing touch football at Hyannis Port; sailing off Martha’s Vineyard; swimming in the rough surf; a hero of World War II; dancing with his bride on their wedding day; playing with his children — raced across my mind. He was so…alive. DEAD. This couldn’t be true. I searched faces. Looking for any inkling that I had misunderstood what had been said.

Tears flowed from the eyes of nearly everyone in that auditorium. I wondered to myself “Who will take care of us now that he gone?”

Remember what the world was like back then. America had finished the Korean War nearly a decade ago and now there were two Koreas — North and South — with a line drawn in the sand called the DMZ. We saw Fidel Castro overthrow his native country’s government an assume power as a dictator. We were in a new era called the Cold War.

We learned how to hide underneath our desks in school. We watched as Nikita Khrushchev angrily banged his shoe on the table at United Nation meetings declaring that he would “bury America” all because Francis Gary Powers' U-2 plane was shot down over Soviet airspace. Had we not just lived through the failed invasion of the Bay of Pigs in Cuba? And now our president was dead? This was scary.

I was a young and back then, I believed the president was like my father and mother — they took care of us. The President took care of America and now he is dead. Who will take care of us? What are we going to do? What will happen to us?

“School will be dismissed until further notice. Everyone please go home and pray for the president, his family and our country.” Leaving school I looked back to see the state flag being lowered, snapping in the cold November wind. I do not even remember how I got home. We usually walked together in groups going to and from school-loud and rowdy group of neighborhood kids. No one spoke. Some cried. I was numb. You walked through the streets and saw people crying, talking excitably to each other, listening to the radio and standing around storefront windows faces pressed against the glass looking at the TV sets on display that all were tuned to one of the (then) three television stations — ABC, CBS and NBC. People rushed into the open doors of churches-their bells ringing solemnly.

“All flags are ordered to fly at half mast” David Brinkley and Chet Huntley’s voices are steady but sullen as they recounted the day’s events.

That evening was spent looking at the news, people calling endlessly on the phone, crying, praying, looking through old Life magazine with pictures of JFK and Jackie and their children juxtaposed against a TV backdrop showing the First Lady in a blood stained suit and a grim faced Lyndon B. Johnson with Ladybird Johnson (aptly named) tucked beneath his side-taking the oath of office, his hand held up as he was being sworn in aboard a plane flying back to Washington, D.C. Commentators gave us blow-by-blow coverage of the day's events while trying to keep their composure.

The Zapruder film played like holiday commercials. Repeatedly we watched as this bright and beautiful First Couple come down the stairs of the airplane, roses being handed to Jackie — sun shining brightly, her smile, their hair blowing. They the Governor of Texas and other officials, got into the open top car and drove away as onlookers waved and smiled.

The motorcade turned the corner and towards the Texas Book Depository and into the square-flashed white lights and whiffs of smoke. Then, the president grabbed his throat, fell forward and slumped over sideways. Jackie tried to aid her dying husband, climbed onto the back of the still-moving motorcade to help the Secret Service agent into the car.

Yeah we saw it.

I still see it.

Knowing that those bright beautiful days were all gone made me sad. When he was elected president, his likeness appeared on all manners of merchandise: throws, pictures, books, bubble gum cards, glasses, dishes, mugs, purses, magazines, etc. Our first celebrity president. We still have a royal blue velvet throw with his picture on it (everyone I knew had one).

The weekend came the presidential casket laid in the rotunda of the Capitol all weekend, on view for all to see. Monday, Nov. 25 was John-John's third birthday. My little sister, Anne, was only a month older than he was at that time.

The TV never stopped running coverage of this tragedy and on this day it was ratcheted up to an all-time high. Masses of people lined the streets and wept as the flag-draped coffin and the funeral procession to St. Matthew’s Cathedral passed by. The riderless horse with the empty boots in the stirrups strode by. Jackie, as always, fashionably dressed in a black suit with a long black veil. The rest of the Kennedy clan surrounded her, their faces somber and sad with loss. The president’s father, Joe Kennedy, in a wheelchair — the result of a massive stroke — seemed blissfully unaware of the situation. JFK's two children not quite understanding what happened. Every detail was explained and described to us. We knew what was going to happen at every turn and we sat there in front of our TV as if in a trance, unable to look away.

“Oh, look there’s Charles de Galle, Haile Selassie; Prince Phillip...isn’t that Ralph Bunche?...Oh, look it’s Eisenhower...there’s Truman and... U Thant..."

We kept calling names as the family, guests and dignitaries filed into the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle. Cardinal Cushing of the Archdiocese of Boston, in the president's home state of Massachusetts, led the mass. Someone I do not remember read his Inaugural Address. It was the first time that I had ever heard it in its entirety and this was the first time that I wept that day. The second time came at the end of the service when John John, the then-three-year-old son of the president, stepped forward and saluted his father. I do not know what was sadder the fact that his father was dead, taken violently away from him or that this was his birthday.

By the end of the 21-gun salute at Arlington Cemetery and the lighting of the Eternal Flame-everyone in my household and in households across the nation were emotionally spent, heartbroken, nervous and unsure about the future.

Thanksgiving Day came on Thursday, Nov. 28. The day before was Caroline Kennedy’s sixth birthday.

The anticipation of turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, greens, gravy, cranberry sauce, pies and the likes disappeared just like our appetites. We sat down to eat and offered up a prayer not of Thanksgiving but of comfort and support for a 34-year-old mother and two small children now all alone in the White House. Amen.

Our appetites were gone-replaced by an emptiness that we could not possibly fill.

No friends, family or neighbors dropped in for lunch, dessert or anything-everyone was home digesting this horrendous week of misery and pain.

Monday, Dec. 2, schools opened once again. We said the Pledge of Allegiance and the Lord’s Prayer, we went to our classes-about our lives and we lived through it.