No one born in the 50s or earlier can forget this date. It was also a Friday, that day in 1963. I was in 6th grade. I came back from lunch & some of the girls in my class ran up to me & said the president had been shot. It was only when they told Mrs. Wootten, that day's playground monitor, that I believed them—I knew they wouldn't make a joke to her. Not that it was anything to joke about but kid confusion sends our minds wherever. They let us out early & I remember flying home down Summit Avenue in fear: What would happen?
The worst thing in the world is often never the worst. Or not as bad as it seems at the time.
I've probably written about this before but my mother heard on the radio while she was driving. When her hands flew up in shock, she almost hit someone, who gave her a dirty look. I know that other woman's story about that day always included my anonymous mother.