(Place on page 22, after para. 2)
Another early hero of mine became such a vivid memory, one that would last a lifetime. I was home on November 22, 1963, recovering from yet another fracture. I remember watching TV around 12:30 p.m., when a news flash interrupted Mom's soap opera. Whenever the sign "Special Report" flashed on the screen you knew it wasn't going to be good news.
Mom was outside hanging clothes. When she came in I blurted out the news "The president was shot!" I remember her gasping, standing aside the TV and watching Walter Cronkite break the tragic news that John F. Kennedy had been shot in Dallas, Texas.
We watched in stunned silence as the once quiet Friday afternoon soon melted into many days of sadness. We couldn't take our eyes off the screen all weekend. I remember crying, as my Mom did, when we watched the funeral, especially when little John-John saluted his father's casket.
Everything was in black and white, including our world. We all had a lost, sunken feeling that nothing would ever be the same.
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