It took me five days, but I put all my thoughts together of the
day I heard, with all other Americans, that John Kennedy died. We would find
out later that a deranged worker named Lee Harvey Oswald had stayed during lunch
at this worksite that overlooked the route of a presidential motorcade in
Dallas, Texas. Having slipped a mail-order rifle to work in brown paper wrapping,
and having learned to shoot in the United States Marine Corps, he had one of those
epochal opportunities that can change world history.
If you have memories, leave them in the comments. Mine:
I shared a house on Leverett Street in Fayetteville, Arkansas
with another student. We were there for lunch during noon break, listening to
the local radio station KHOG. Right at 12:30, there was a break saying that
sounds were heard along the presidential cavalcade in Dallas. They may have
been gunshots. They may have been fireworks. They may have been a car or
motorcycle backfiring. We were to stay tuned.
The sounds were gunshots. We were to stay tuned.
The presidential cavalcade was headed for a hospital. We were to stay
tuned.
Minutes elapsed. A song with lyrics, “I gotta woman, way
cross town, she’s good to me,” started to play. It stopped.
President Kennedy is dead. Music resumed, “I’ve
gotta woman, way cross town, she’s good to me.”
I couldn’t speak. My roommate could. “Well that’s what happens
when you go up against the will of the people.” He was speaking of racial integration,
of course.
What to do? I had a one o’clock class in sociology under a
Dr. Grant Bogue, who became somewhat famous in the field in later years. I
decided I should go. It was too lonely not to.
There was, still is, a small Catholic Church a couple of
blocks from campus on Leverett. As I walked toward class, I still thought the
whole thing might be some horrific mistake. Then I saw cars jammed up in front
of the church and women running inside, clutching rosaries.
It was true all right.
About half the class showed up. Not many were prepared to speak.
One sorority girl broke the silence by asking Dr. Grant what he thought about the
claim of some numerology relationship between presidents who were assassinated and
the year in which they been elected. It had something to do with leap years or
some such relationship.
He pondered this bit of folk-related insight for a moment. “I
doubt that it is any more ridiculous than some of the other things we’ll be hearing
in the future.” Little could we have imagined his prescience. Then, after a long silence, he dismissed
class.
The following week is a blur. Next day was Saturday. The
University of Arkansas was one of the few colleges in the country that didn’t
cancel its game. I had no stomach for it, but I did walk over to see the
protesters. One sign read, “The country prays. U of A plays.” That was probably
the best one.
I had no access to television, so I failed to see Jack Ruby
murder Oswald, or the funeral of the president. I saw them later on reruns, and
of course many, many times since.
Later, at the home of a couple I knew, both severe and
radical evangelical “Christians,” I watched young John Jr. salute the coffin of
his murdered father. As I tried to stop the tears, I heard a voice boom, “I
just wonder how many people have been ‘swupt’ off into Hell watching that Catholic
funeral.”
It was over. I learned, for then and forever, that some
things never change.
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| How the mighty are fallen. - 2 Samuel 1:27 |
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