Many memories of that day are hazy. After all, it’s been a few years.
I was in the eighth grade at the old Lincoln School in Decatur, a building that no longer exists. As we were filtering back up to the third floor after lunch period and into our classrooms, I noticed several teachers huddled closely together. It seemed unusual.
When the bell rang, our teacher — I do not remember his name, but am sure it was a “he” — didn’t come in and begin what I think was a math class. The huddle persisted outside in the hallway. We took advantage of the extra free time — the usual early-teen banter. At some point, Mr. Whats-his-name may have come in and told us that our principal would be making an announcement. Or maybe, I think, he didn’t even do that. It was another 10 minutes or so before Mr. Zerkel’s deep baritone came over the speaker in each classroom.
I don’t remember exactly what he said. It was obvious from his tone that something was amiss. Whatever the specific words were, we soon learned that our nation’s president had been assassinated — a new word for us that would be forever burned into our brains. It would indeed have a distinct, perhaps unique meaning for each of us. To this day, when we Boomers hear that word — “assassination” — we think of one particular person. Or maybe two. Or three.
No more teenage banter. A very quiet room. I do recall there was a lot of uncertainty. It was obvious that the teachers were in no mood to teach and we learners were in no mood to learn. What to do? We did not have televisions in each room at the time so they put a radio-news feed over the intercom and we listened to that for awhile. Perhaps even an hour or so. Then we were dismissed for the day.
We lived only about three blocks from the school. It doesn’t seem like it was a particularly cold day but it was cloudy. Rain threatened. Mom was not working outside the home at the time. When I walked in the back door, she didn’t seem surprised to see me home early. I think she’d been crying. We didn’t say much.
I had a newspaper route at the time so I changed clothes, bundled up and rode my bike downtown — only another few blocks in a different direction.
The paperboys gathered in what we called the “bullpen,” a small room next to the pressroom, accessible via the alleyway. Usually, by the time we’d get out of school and downtown, our papers might be ready for us. Not today. Not only were we early, but word soon came that the press run would be late as the crew was working to get as much up-to-date information as possible into that day’s edition.
Another quiet room. I do not recall having any kind of a conversation with anyone.
It was getting dark by the time I got my papers, got them either folded or rolled up and placed in my paperbag and attached to my bike handles. And then it began to rain.
That’s what I clearly remember about Nov. 22, 1963 — passing those papers in the gloaming dark, in the rain. Not heavy, but steady. Most of my 70 or 80 customers were apparently watching for me and came out to get the paper as I approached their porch.
And just like that, it is 60 years later.
miller@news-banner.com
