Recently I was asked to write a memoir about where I was when I heard about the assassination of President Kennedy and how it affected me. So, here goes:

I was a senior at Creighton Prep High School, in the middle of art class. It was a Friday, just after lunch period. An announcement came over the speaker system informing us that the President had been shot during a motorcade through Dallas, Texas, and was rushed to a hospital. We were led in prayers for what suddenly became a shockingly serious situation for Kennedy and the country. Efforts to save him were futile. He was declared dead at 1:00pm Central Time.

A schoolmate’s father died of a heart attack on the same day. Two sad funerals occurred then on Monday. Many tears were shed.

Our family had a more than President-citizen relationship with JFK. My Aunt Helen, my mom’s sister, was a major player for the Democrat Party of Nebraska’s effort to promote Kennedy’s campaign for the presidency in 1960. Amazingly, for her efforts she was appointed personal secretary to Robert Kennedy when he became Attorney General in January of 1961, a post she held until he resigned the office to run for the U.S. Senate from New York.

On the evening of November 20, 1963 Helen had actually spoken with the President at an exclusive party celebrating the 38^th birthday of brother Robert. The following morning, John and Jackie left for Texas.

From the minute CBS News anchor Walter Cronkite battled to hold his emotions in check to inform the world of JFK’s death, through a weekend of non-stop live black and white TV broadcast updates until the interment, life was on hold. We were eating Sunday breakfast in the living room when we watched someone later identified as Jack Ruby shoot Kennedy’s alleged assassin Lee Harvey Oswald on live TV. I almost choaked on my scrambled eggs.

My Uncle John, Helen’s and my mother’s brother, who at the time was living in Falls Church, Virginia, and working for the CIA, somehow against a crushing crowd of onlookers, made it into Arlington Cemetery. The funeral procession was long and thousands had gathered along the route across the Potomac to catch a glimpse of it. John, a decorated veteran of World War II himself, saw several news photographers standing on tombstones to film the event. After chasing them away, disgusted, he went back home, missing the historic horse-drawn caisson headed to the gravesite.

I never met the man. I was at home babysitting my toddler brother when the family went to the social gathering in June of ’59. Even so, after his death I gradually became more impressed, more affected, by his charm, eloquence, charisma and youthful energy, all qualities usually foreign to a resident of the White House; by the storybook Crusader-Knight mystique of a dynamic leader fearless in his vision for social justice and the race into space; with his communication skills, and ability to inspire a nation with his “Ask not” challenge to patriotism and national pride. In many ways, he modeled the title of his bestselling book, Profiles In Courage. That final day in Dallas hurt me enough to write from my heart a poem 52 years later, to lament the loss of so much more than a president: The loss of my generation’s Camelot.

PS. My grandmother pictured here with Kennedy also shows my mom, far left and Helen introducing the then Senator from Massachusetts prior to his declaring his presidential candidacy. The original 8 x 10 was personalized with the following: “To Mrs. Popa – with the warm regards and best wishes of her friend. John Kennedy.” She is featured in my “Immigration, 1914” post, October 19, 2024. Maybe I will write a story titled “Romanian Peasant Meets President-to-Be.”