Un-happy Birthday

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.