Sixty years ago, Nov. 22, 1963, as crowds waved and cheered his motorcade, President John F. Kennedy was suddenly shot and killed. His wife was sitting beside him. I was just 13. My carefree life was shattered and my innocence was lost. But my memory is clear.
It was a lovely Friday afternoon in late autumn. I had just boarded the school bus with much anticipation, knowing that next week was Thanksgiving and my family would be traveling to Charleston, South Carolina, for my cousin’s wedding. I had received a new Kodak Instamatic color camera for my birthday and I was excited that I could take my own photos.
The echoes of many voices interrupted my daydream. “The President has been shot!” What? That can’t be. Who would want to shoot our president?
He was the epitome of charisma, young and handsome with a beautiful wife and two adorable children. They were Camelot, our royal family. His picture hung in our home and in the Life magazines that we collected. I knew all the words to the novelty record by Little Jo-Ann, “My Daddy is President, what does your Daddy do?” Most importantly, he and his family, like my own, were from Massachusetts and Catholic.
But it was true. CBS news anchor Walter Cronkite informed a shocked nation that our President had been shot and was killed in Dallas, Texas. I was old enough to understood what “dead” meant, but I could not comprehend what had happened. We stared at the black-and-white TV. Dad came home, neighbors arrived and the phone rang. Tears flowed and the adults had no answers.
I am not certain if the images I recall now were truly from that moment, or are just part of our collective memories that have been replaying over the years: The presidential motorcade, the blank expression of a blood-stained First Lady and the sounds of grief from a nation in shock and disbelief.
By the next morning, Saturday, our plans had changed. We would leave early for South Carolina, stopping in Virginia to stay with another cousin. We would be going to our President’s funeral. When Mom phoned to let the school know, one of the teachers replied that we should not miss the opportunity to experience an historic event of such great significance.
We left very early on Sunday and listened to the news in the car radio along the way. My brother and I wanted to go directly to the Rotunda, but because the lines were so long and the wait was hours, I only took a photo of the Capitol from the car. Once we arrived at my cousin’s in Virginia, we watched the black-and-white television as endless mourners passed by the flag-draped casket. I cried when our First Lady Jacqueline came into view wearing a thick black veil with her two young children, Caroline and John-John by her side. She was a picture of grace and dignity, bravely leading a nation deep in sorrow and despair. “How can she maintain such composure?” I thought.
Monday, we found a viewing spot near the Lincoln Memorial. The crowds were massive, yet orderly. I could only see what was immediately in front of me as military and police closely protected the procession route. I took photos of cadets marching to the solemn drum cadence of the Army band. As I heard the hoofs of the team of white horses pulling the caisson that carried the red, white and blue flag-draped casket, I clicked the shutter and captured a Kodak moment that remains permanently stamped in my mind and soul.
We moved to the Memorial Bridge for another view of the procession en route to Arlington Cemetery. I snapped a photo of the First Lady’s limousine; the windows heavily tinted providing the only privacy for a woman grieving for her husband and children’s father and an entire nation.
Later, we followed others to the gravesite, as limousines with foreign dignitaries lined up to pay the respects of so many countries. There I took my last photo of the flower-covered grave on the slope of the Lee Mansion. Heavily guarded by a military brigade, the temporary eternal flame was visible to mark the final resting place of our country’s Commander-in-Chief.
We drove on to Charleston, celebrated Thanksgiving with Mom’s family and somehow managed to dance at my cousin’s wedding. After, we came home to Massachusetts and went back to school and life. I grew up, had a career, married and had children and grandchildren. In the intervening 60 years, I have yet to meet anyone outside my family who has shared this experience.
Although the colors in the photos have faded and the images seem less clear, I still feel the emotions of a young teen witnessing a profoundly tragic and shocking event that forever changed my innocence and that of our world, the day that Camelot died.
I recently traveled to Dallas to witness the fateful spot. A number of times, I have returned to the gravesite in Arlington, as though he were a family member.
In some ways, he was.
I am grateful for that.
Dr. Barbara Poremba lives in Salem and is a professor emeritus of nursing at Salem State University.