The day was
finally here – my fourth birthday. It was Friday, November 22, 1963. Mom,
Grandma and I just finished a late lunch, as they devoted all morning to
preparing food and decorating for the party. They shooed me out of the kitchen
so they could clean up promising I would get to help with the cake just as soon
as they were finished. I grabbed the hand of my brand new Thumbelina doll and
went into the living room to watch TV.
“Something’s
wrong with the TV,” I said to my mother. “All the channels have the same show
on.”
“How can
that be?” she said wiping her hands on her apron as she approached the
television. She stopped suddenly and listened to the television announcer. “Oh
no!” She cried. “Mama, come quickly. The President’s been shot!”
“What?” Grandma said in disbelief. She came
into the room dishtowel in hand. “Make it louder,” she said to Mom as she
slowly sat down on the couch.
News anchor Walter
Cronkite’s face was so familiar he seemed like a favorite uncle. Dad watched
him on the news every night while Mom and Grandma cleaned up after dinner. Now,
mid-afternoon, these two women who never, ever
watched TV during the day, watched him, too. Their faces looked terribly worried,
like they did when I got a fever. I was confused. “What’s wrong, Mommy?” I
asked.
“Shhhhhh,”
she said holding up her hand for me to be quiet, her eyes fixed on the screen.
Hurt and a little frightened, I moved toward Grandma. With a sympathetic look
on her face, she reached one hand out to me and patted the seat cushion next to
her with the other.
Suddenly, Walter
Cronkite stopped speaking, as he slowly put on his eyeglasses with thick black
frames. He read something on a monitor
near his desk. Then he took off his glasses, spoke briefly, and put his glasses
back on remaining silent for several seconds. He looked like he might cry. I
didn’t comprehend what he said.
“Oh my God,”
said Mom holding her face in her hands. She began to cry.
Desperate
for understanding, I looked at Grandma. She silently wiped a tear from her
cheek with the dish towel. I put my hand on her leg. “Grandma, please tell me
why you and Mommy are crying?”
“President
Kennedy died, my Angel.”
I didn’t
know what that meant, but I knew it must be something extremely sad. I held
tightly onto my Thumbelina and lay down on the couch next to Grandma.
Eventually, I fell asleep.
I woke up
when Dad came home from work. Mom and Grandma were still watching TV.
“Daddy!” I jumped
up and ran to him. “Daddy, it’s my birthday!” I said hopefully.
“I know,
Baby,” he said as he came down on one knee, looked into my eyes, and gently
touched my cheek with the back of his hand. Then he lowered his head, and his
shoulders shook as he silently wept. It was the first time I ever saw him cry. He
stood up slowly. Mom walked over, and wrapped her arms around him. Grandma
started crying all over again.
It was my
birthday. It was supposed to be a happy day yet, all the grown-ups were crying.
I went into the kitchen alone. I climbed onto a chair and looked into the big red
mixing bowl on the table. The bowl contained flour for my cake. Would there
even be a cake, or a party, or presents I wondered? I saw a small black speck
in the flour that didn’t belong there. I blew into the bowl. Poof! Flour everywhere.
I began to cry.
Epilogue: A few days later, I watched
President Kennedy’s funeral on television. The two things I remember are feeling
deeply sorry for Caroline and John-John who were close to my age, and the
flag-draped coffin. I developed a fear of the American flag after that. To my
four-year-old self it was the symbol of something so horrible it could make
everyone sad – even Walter Cronkite. When I started Kindergarten the following
fall, I was dismayed to discover there was a big American flag hanging in the
classroom. Luckily, Miss Rosenbloom allowed us to choose our seats. I chose the
one furthest from the flag.
