My only memories of John F. Kennedy’s assassination are my mother’s.
Here’s her story.
Mom was mopping the kitchen floor with the radio on. Only nine months old, I was watching the proceedings from my perch in my high chair.
A radio announcer broke into the music with the news of the President’s death in Dallas. Mom immediately dropped her mop and walked out into the front yard. All the other moms on her street were standing in their yards, sobbing.
Much later she remembered I was sitting alone in the kitchen, surrounded by drying suds.
I think I can cut her some slack.
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