November 22, 1963

A common-born child was changed by the death of a man one day. Back in the 60's, (I remember.) when barefoot kids were called in, from carefree play. A rowdy, raucous group, (Tag, you're 'it' No! Tag, I got you back.) tumbling into the backdoor, in answer to Momma's call. I, being first inside, pulled up short, knowing something just wasn't right. The deep voice of a man was blaring from the radio. (No country songs playing quietly while she worked.) She hushed us sharply. Then, I saw her face, palled and drawn, having saucer eyes, as when hot clouded coffee is poured out to cool. (I had never met her fear before.) The words of the announcer echoed across a hollow room, “President John F Kennedy, the thirty-fifth president of the United States died today...” Even I the youngest, could catch the significance of what we heard, that somber day the country reeled. (The punch in the gut struck me as well.) On Friday, November 22, 1963 my innocence of childhood left, and while standing barefoot in a poor man's house, I felt kinship with the world.