The excitement grew as the marching band played and the presidential helicopter touched down on the fairgrounds. In those innocent days, we were allowed to get amazingly close to the charismatic president, separated only by a chain-link fence.
The school year at Little Rock Central High had barely begun when on that September day, afternoon classes were suspended. John F. Kennedy, the thirty-fifth president of the United States was coming to visit our town. He was the first who didn’t seem old and who addressed the youth in a way that made us feel so valued and full of promise. His youthfulness made the three years that separated him from my dad seem like a whole generation.
The majority of the student body walked to the fairgrounds to witness the brief stop that President Kennedy would make on a trip to dedicate a new dam system. Wanting to look my best, I wore my newest outfit and brand new leather shoes with no socks. The one-mile walk soon had rubbed huge blisters on both of my feet.
Through the discomfort, I listened to the president’s speech but didn’t really take in what he had to say. I was so giddy with the excitement of seeing this man in person that I could scarcely focus on his message.
The glow of that special visit was still with me on November 22, 1963.
The halls were filled with students banging locker doors and hurrying to class after lunch. As we neared classroom doors, teachers stood with somber faces, quietly sharing the news. “The president has been shot. Come in and sit down.” Surely, I thought, it must just be a wound in his arm or something, just a nick. He will recover.
I noticed a handsome upperclassman that I had a crush on skipping down the hall in celebration of the horrific news, apparently in resentment of the president’s commitment to racial harmony. Instantly, I felt nothing but repulsion for this once appealing young man. Mrs. Reiman hurried us into the Geometry classroom, where we sat in stunned silence. Soon, the announcement came over the static-laced intercom: “Students, the President of the United States has died. Please rise for a moment of silence.” I stood with wobbly knees in disbelief and looked out the window to the front lawn to watch as the U.S. flag was lowered to half-staff. We were later dismissed to the auditorium to watch scant coverage of the confused aftermath on a television with rabbit ears.
Thankfully, this awful event took place on a Friday, so that we could be with our families for the weekend to absorb all that had happened. Church services were immediately scheduled throughout Little Rock. My sister came home from college and we all attended a special service at our church. Bells tolled all over town.
A few days later, we watched on TV as the world paid its last respects to the president. We had personal concerns about the young widow having to go through the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, and our hearts broke when the little 3-year-old saluted his father’s coffin as it was carried down the street on the horse-drawn caisson.
The little red scars that resulted from wearing my brand new shoes to see President Kennedy on that autumn day would remain on my feet for decades. Often, I touched them, sadly remembering the terrible wound Lee Harvey Oswald inflicted on our nation and how quickly we lost Camelot.