November 1963

In 1960 (I was a soldier in Germany and not quite old enough to vote for Kennedy) I thought my country was all set.  We'd have President John F. Kennedy until 1968; then we'd have President Robert F. Kennedy until 1976; and then we'd have President Edward M. Kennedy until 1984, by which time maybe one of the Kennedy grandchildren would be old enough to be President.  I could be proud forever and more.

On November 22, 1963, I was working in a small two-man (as we'd say then) Western Union office way up in the small town of Cadillac, Michigan.  I was filling in for the manager while he vacationed ... my job was going from town to town, filling in for other people.  In Cadillac my co-worker liked to take her lunch from noon to one; and I'd go from one to two.  When she returned from lunch she told me that it'd just come on the news that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas.  We turned on the radio.  Strange names and places ... Dealey Plaza, Parkland Hospital, Texas Book Depository, Oswald, grassy knoll, Tibbets.

In an instant the future I'd supposed would come about was blasted to smithereens.  I walked around in disbelief for days.