The Day Tears Fell at
School
This past month I have heard this question frequently asked,
“Where were you on November 22, 1963?" As with most other Americans my age or
older, I can distinctly recall where I was on that fateful day. That year I was
a second grader in Mrs. Larene Akers’ combined classroom of second and third
graders. As a seven-year-old, I thoroughly enjoyed how Mrs. Akers infused music
into our morning. She always started our day with melody and movement. In my
little mind, I couldn’t imagine a better way to start each day. However, a piercing voice on
the school public address system marred that magical year with the jolting news
that the only president that I had known was dead. I quietly wept during our Friday
afternoon recess. This was the first time I remember crying over the death of a
person.
Our school, as well as our nation, “shut down” the following
Monday as the young president was mourned and buried. I recall going to Aunt Emma’s home to watch
the funeral on her black and white television. I sat in silence with my family soberly
observing the horse-drawn cassion
transporting the coffin of the slain leader of our country followed by the
riderless horse. The protocol seemed like an important and necessary way to
honor the only president I’d ever known. As a little second-grader, I knew very
little about politics, the cold war, or the arms race but was painfully aware
that a little girl named Caroline about my age was now without her father. My
worry-free life of innocence and naivety jolted by that Friday, November 22,
1963, would never return to that carefree state again. However, that weekend I learned the importance of empathy, a compassionate, caring characteristic necessary for living a life of purpose and worth.
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This wrinkled Sunday issue of The Ponca City News had been
folded tightly and was preserved in plastic by my mother.
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| A well-worn book that I had ordered from the monthly
book club.
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