I was seven years old in November of 1963, second grade, when the news came across our black and white, very modern television set, President John F. Kennedy has been assassinated. It was Friday, just after noon, six days before Thanksgiving. We were let out of school early because of the assassination. Due to the difference in Alaska time the official announcement of the president’s death came just before noon. The whole nation, including our family, were glued to their television sets and radios, waiting for any news of the president’s well-being, praying for the best. When the news finally came, mom sobbed. I’d never seen mom cry before that day. At my age, I didn’t know much, but that day I knew that our president had enemies, and because my mom cried for him, I also knew that he was loved by many. How does a nation celebrate Thanksgiving under those circumstances? The assassination was followed by accusations, conspiracies, the assassination of the alleged assassin, more conspiracies, investigations, and then the nation was left in the dark; the books were closed. The government declared the case closed, they had gotten their man, Lee Harvey Oswald, and he was dead, killed before he could answer any questions.
No one believed them, no one at all. If it wasn’t Oswald, then who really fired the shot that killed the president of the United States of America? People want to know the truth, and they will never stop asking, “Did our own government kill the president?” The truth would be hidden for decades, maybe forever.
It Didn’t End There
The Swinging Sixties, a decade that will never be forgotten. It was both my youth and my emergence into adulthood. I was surrounded by iconic moments, both personal and external. It was ten years of constant defining moments for me and my siblings.
Sky Valley Messenger 