Telling a story is like creating a tapestry. We weave words, thoughts, ideas, and memories together in what may at first appear to be like the messy combination of warp and woof threads when you look at the backside of the tapestry. But when the work is done and you turn it over, the picture is complete, and hopefully the end product is something pleasing and memorable.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Remembering Camelot ~ A Short Story
November 22, 1963:
The school day began
with excitement. The cheerleaders were stopping everybody in the halls, trying
to sell them spirit ribbons for the big game tonight. There were banners up all
down the halls, saying "Beat the Crossroads Cougars!" The football
players had decorations on their lockers. It was a big celebration all day as
we got revved up about our championship game tonight. We were all proud and a
little cocky, believing that we were only hours away from a state football
championship win. Any high school in Texas would have reacted the same way.
Right after lunch, I
gathered my books from my locker and headed to biology lab. We were dissecting
a frog, and my partner and I had ours pinned to the board. Christie had made
the first incision and I was peeling back the skin with my tweezers, trying not
to gag at the scent of formaldehyde. The lab door opened and Mrs. Curry from
the history class across the hall stepped in and motioned to Mr. Skelton to
join her. There was something about her face that made me watch her rather than
return my attention to our splayed frog.
I watched the two
teachers in a whispered conversation, then saw Mr. Skelton’s face turn pale. As
Mrs. Curry slipped out the door, he turned to the class, looking sick to his
stomach. In a hoarse voice he said, "Class, I have something to tell
you." Everyone quieted and turned their eyes his direction. "It
appears that President Kennedy has been shot," he said in a disbelieving
voice. Several people gasped, and everyone looked stricken, no one uttering a
word. He cleared his throat, obviously struggling for control. "We are all
going to the library where there is a TV set up, and we can watch the news
I glanced down at the
gaping frog on the table, and felt a wave of nausea. I quickly dropped the
tweezers and scraped my chair back with all the others in the room. We filed in
shock down the hall, meeting lines of other students, all of us walking like
zombies through a silent hallway. On the TV, they kept showing shots of
Parkland Hospital in Dallas as policemen and secret service agents stood near
the emergency room doors, keeping crowds away from the entrance. There was
sketchy information, and Walter Cronkite continued to remind us of the details
of the President’s trip to Texas. Everything
had happened so quickly in the motorcade through downtown Dallas, and everyone
on television was speculating about the President’s injuries. It was all so
horrifying and unreal.
No one in the library
was talking or cutting up. We couldn't take our eyes off the television screen.
Occasionally, some of the girls would cry softly, and all of us looked like we
wanted to. After a length of time that seemed to stretch forever, Mr. Cronkite
announced with emotion that the president was dead. Then all of us began to
cry, even some of the boys and the teachers.
We continued to sit,
riveted to the unfolding news reports. Eventually the day ended; the school
principal announced over the speaker system that the football game scheduled
for tonight had been postponed until next week. We all whispered together as we
left the building, headed for home. Mama was parked in front of the high school,
waiting for me. We drove home, mostly in silence, and once inside the house, we
walked into the living room without comment and turned on the TV. When it
warmed up and the picture appeared, it was a repeat of all the newsreels I had
seen all afternoon—the same photos, over and over, with no one seeming to be
able to grasp what had happened. Mama looked up when Daddy came home from work,
but made no attempt to cook dinner. Finally, as we sat in our darkened living
room with faces angled toward the television, Mama got up and went to put three
TV dinners in the oven. When they were ready, we all sat at our TV trays in
darkness, numb, watching the unbelievable scene repeated onscreen of Vice President
Johnson taking the oath of office aboard Air Force One. Mama just kept
muttering, "I can't believe it" over and over. I finally got up and
went to my room. I flopped on the bed and the tears finally turned loose in a
flood. It is all so unbelievable. I can't think what happens next. How can
anything normal happen after this????
November 30, 1963:
The whole town turned
out for the final state championship game tonight. It was unthinkable to play
the game last week after the President was killed. Thanksgiving this week complicated
rescheduling the game. Our principal and the football coach met with UIL
officials to discuss postponing the game, so it was rescheduled during
were raw from the events surrounding John F. Kennedy's death last week. It
hardly seemed right to be playing a football game tonight in light of all that
is happening in our country. We all found it difficult to feel enthusiastic
about what was taking place on the field, but we did our best to cheer our boys
Instead of our band’s usual
half-time marching routine, we marched solemnly onto the field to a somber drum
cadence and the announcer said there would be a silent tribute to President
Kennedy. Then all of us band members dropped to one knee and bowed our heads.
After a few minutes of silence, the announcer led a brief prayer for our
nation, for the Kennedy family, and for the Johnson family, and we solemnly and
silently marched back off the field and into the stands.
The game was a close
one, and both sides fought fiercely, as if battling in a war zone. Our team won
with a touchdown in the last two minutes, the final score 21-18. We were proud
to win, but it was a subdued victory. It almost felt like we had fought a
fierce enemy, and that the victory ushered us into a strange new world.
On the two-hour bus
ride back home, we were mostly silent, with only a few whispered conversations.
No one had the heart for the usual songs, chants, and laughter that often
accompanied our trips home. I sat by the window, feeling the cold windowpane
against my cheek as I watched the dark landscape slide past. Many of the fields
were bare now from the cotton harvest, with only the sight of an occasional
cotton harvester’s headlights beaming out in the field. We passed isolated
farms, quiet at the end of the day, perhaps with a glowing light from inside
the farmhouse the only indication of the presence of life. The bus passed
through small towns on our way back to our own village, and streets were
deserted. Their residents were likely holed up in their homes, maybe still
enjoying leftover turkey, perhaps silently trying to grasp how their world had
dramatically shifted in the past eight days.
Looking back from the
vantage point of fifty years later, my own worldview had been turned upside
down in 1963. At fifteen, I was just beginning to ease my big toe into the
adult world around me. I didn’t know much about politics, other than what I
heard the adults around me discuss. There had been skepticism about the
President when he was elected, but many felt he had handled the Bay of Pigs
situation with strength and bravery. We had discussed it in my Civics class and
I had certainly respected Mr. Kennedy as the leader of our country. Who could
keep from getting caught up in the romance and excitement of our vibrant young
president and his charming wife? They were the fairy-tale family, and most of
us were enamored of the Camelot that played out before us on television and
displayed on magazine covers.
Now it had all been
blown apart by a senseless assassination. I had read stories about the
assassination of President Lincoln, but who would have ever imagined we would
know first-hand the meaning of that word in our own generation?
THE AUTHOR’S COMMENTARY:
The story you have
just read is part fact, part fiction. I actually wrote it a couple of years ago
to be included in a piece I was writing about the 1960s. I drew from my own
memories of that very dramatic historical period, but altered the actual facts
to fit the storyline. I found that all the emotions were still intact, however,
because no matter one’s age, a person does not experience something this
profound without being changed.
There are some
occasions in life when you realize instantly that your world has just been
significantly altered—that nothing will ever be the same again. The first such
time in my lifespan occurred when my grandma died in 1954. The second one
happened on November 22, 1963. In recent years, the most dramatic shift
impacted my world on September 11, 2001.
Those moments are
forever etched in our memories, for we realize at those times that the world
tilts a different direction, and all we have known as stable and steady slides
to one side and careens out of control until we can regain our footing once
John Kennedy’s death
truly felt like the end of Camelot to many people. A few years following his
death, I was to watch the movie Camelot
and hear these words to the theme song, which may have very aptly described the
idealistic world many of us lived in until the end of 1963:
"In short, there's simply not A more congenial spot For happily-ever-aftering than here in Camelot."