On November 22, 1963 I was a sixth grader in room 19 at Liberty Elementary School in Marysville. It was my favorite grade of elementary school. That was mostly the case because Mr. Thacker was the first male teacher I’d had. Because he was a man and because he was only about 16 years older than I was, I related to him very well.

I can’t recall what Mr. Thacker was teaching about that morning, but I do remember that I had a case of the hiccups. I walked to the back of the classroom to get a drink of water. It was while I was stooping to reach the water fountain attached to the sink that the voice of our principal came over the intercom. Miss Ebert informed us that President Kennedy was dead. Within the hour classes were dismissed and we were sent home.

That Friday afternoon began the longest weekend in my memory to that point. Regular television programming was interrupted by somber music. Everything appeared to be happening around me in slow motion. For an eleven-year-old, it was surreal.   

Since my pastor-father was out of town on a speaking assignment, my mom took us out to a fast-food restaurant. Afterwards we stopped at a variety store. I begged her to be able to buy a JFK doll that I’d seen before. The twelve-inch figure was seated in a wooden rocking chair. When you wound the key beneath the chair (much like the key to a music box) the chair would rock back and forth playing “Happy Days are Here Again.” In spite of my young age, I knew it would be a collectable item someday. But even more than that, it was a keepsake of someone I greatly admired. I loved President Kennedy even more than I loved Mr. Thacker (and I liked him a lot). Let me explain.

When John Kennedy was running for President in 1960, I celebrated my eighth birthday. One of the gifts I’d requested was a paperback book that I’d seen at our local grocery story. I was impressed with JFK’s good looks. He was young. I was impressed by his sense of humor and his strong Bostonian accent. Since my folks were diehard Republicans, they weren’t inclined to honor my wishes. But when my birthday rolled around, I was delighted to receive what I’d asked for.
 
After Kennedy was elected and began holding press conferences, I watched on our black and white TV set. I would often stand in front of the bathroom mirror and pretend I was the President talking to the media. I practiced talking like him. My version of “Ask not what your country can do for you…” sounded very much like him. When I would visit my dad at his church office after school, I stood at the pulpit impersonating my hero with an adlib speech.
 
So Kennedy’s sudden unexpected death impacted me greatly. I was stunned. The day after he was killed, I designed a make-shift protest sign (JFK Why?) and taped it to my blue Schwinn bicycle. I pedaled up and down 3^rd street expressing my anger and sorrow.

On Sunday morning I dressed for church. While my brother and I waited for our mom to get ready, we watched the television set in the family room. Since there was no regular programming, what we saw was live coverage of the suspected assassin of President Kennedy being transferred from the Dallas police station. As we watched, we saw Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald in front of the attending officers and reporters covering the scene. It was unreal. Later, after returning from church, we learned Oswald had died from his injuries.

Losing a childhood hero as an eleven-year-old kid opened my eyes to the fact that evil inhabits our world and that things happen all around us all the time that change the course of history. The killing of a beloved President would be the first of other assassinations of public figures within the next half dozen years. I realized life is precious and even the most powerful are not immune from tragedy. It is a life lesson that I continue to embrace as a seventy-one-year-old.