Today, once again, I find myself jerked back into time. There is a lump in my throat as I remember that day in Dallas.
If you were alive fifty years ago, where were you when you learned that Pres. John Kennedy had been shot?
I was at school, talking to my college counselor, a woman who was normally very composed. The news came over a small radio in her office that was playing softly. We were both stunned. I remember that I was standing and don't know what I said. My attention was focused on the professor who tipped back her chair, tears running down her face.
John Kennedy's death was very personal. We cared about him, we adored his wife and we loved his children. Little John saluting at his father's grave broke our hearts.