Yesterday, I blogged about a joyous anniversary, the opening of the new hospital. Today, not so much. Forty-eight years ago, I was nine years old and in the 4th grade, boy have I gotten old. On that brisk November day just after lunch, we returned from the school yard. We had just settled into our desks for afternoon instruction and word came over the loudspeaker for the Sisters to turn on the classroom televisions. At that point, we learned of President Kennedy's assassination. I think everyone was in shock. Sister Theresa cried while the class stared at the TV trying to understand which was pretty challenging for 8 and 9 year olds. Within 30 minutes of learning of the assassination, we were all told to gather up our belongings and to go straight home. The President Kennedy's death didn't really hit me until I got home and saw my Irish Catholic father standing in the kitchen crying. I had never seen my father cry before. It was certainly a day of many firsts and one that I will never forget.
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