Remembering the Day John F. Kennedy Died

It was November 22, 1963, a cold grey day in Blacksburg, South Carolina.  I was in the third grade, and I had a broken right arm.  The cast was covered in newly learned and carefully formed cursive writing, as all my third grade friends had signed it.

That particular day was definitely NOT a normal day.   My arm was aching and the teachers were crying and wouldn't tell us why.

Teachers never cry.

I was sitting in my little wooden desk near the radiators, which meant that my left side was pretty much on fire and my right side was ice.  The ceilings were at least 12 feet in our old grammar school and most of the heat on the coldest of days hovered above our heads.

Mrs. Jones was my teacher that year.  She had us sit in ABC order, which meant I would be in the front of the class on one side or the other, as my last name was Batchelor.  That year Mrs. Jones started the ABC seating near the radiators underneath the windows near her desk, so that is where I sat.

The windows in that room were tall.  At least three times as tall as my third grade self, I'd say.  You could see the playground outside with a tall chain link fence. Sidewalks, trees, the street, and old wooden neighborhood houses were on the other side of the fence.

The floors in the classroom were old hardwood, polished to a sheen by the janitor, who was a very nice older man.  He'd throw this oily looking sawdust stuff down and then sweep it up leaving the floor shiny and clean.  I can still smell it.

Outside the classroom door was a hallway that ran the length of the building with classrooms on either side.  When an adult visitor or teacher walked down the hall during class time, you could hear their footsteps echo as they approached.

Someone was coming.

Mrs. Moss, a first grade teacher, her face red and grave, opened the door and asked to see her son.  John Edward stepped out of the classroom to see what his mother wanted.  When he came back inside, he said, "It is a sad day for America," and shook his head as if in grief.  He would not tell us what had happened.  He just kept repeating, "It is a sad day for America."

A few minutes later we were told that school was over for the day.  Our parents would be coming for us, but my mother was at work, so I had to just walk home alone, which was usually what I did everyday.  

I still did not know what happened to make the teachers cry,  I was worried and curious, and on my way out John Edward smirked at me with that "I know something you don't know," look on his face. I hit him with my cast and turned my back on him as I left the school and headed home.  I knew he wouldn't even feel it underneath his heavy coat, but I did it anyway.  Hitting him should have made me feel a little better, but it mainly just made my arm hurt worse.

The babysitter was at my house taking care of my younger sister, Debbie, when I got home.  She was glued to the television with tears running down her face.  I still didn't totally understand why everyone was so upset, as I was young and presidents didn't mean that much to me at the time.  I watched and listened to the news on our little black and white television. 

President Kennedy was dead.  Shot in the head in Texas as he was riding in a parade.

The next few days were full of news of his funeral and theories about who did it.  I clearly remember his little son saluting his father's casket.  I felt so bad for him.  I had just lost my own father a year before.  I knew how that little boy felt.  Losing a father is a terrible thing.

It is funny what the mind chooses to remember.  I remember this day so clearly.  A 53 year old day.  Frozen in time in my mind.

If you were alive at that time, I bet you remember it too.  It was not the kind of day to be forgotten.

John Kennedy, Jr. salutes his father's casket, November 1963.