November 22 has always been special for our family because Mom was born on that date. According to Dad, Mom “turned 29” every year. Later on, Dave Arnold, who would serve as a youth pastor, church worship leader, and missionary to the nations, married my sister Mary. Dave also had been born on November 22, which meant that day now became a double header with twice as much cake, ice cream, and merry making.
Some years, Thanksgiving also fell on November 22, transforming it into a triple header complete with turkey, dressing, cranberries, mashed potatoes, gravy, pumpkin pie, and birthday cake. The November 22 that still stands out most in my memory happened sixty years ago.
We were sixth graders at Saint Catherine Laboure Catholic School in Torrance, a suburb of L.A. School policy dictated uniforms. All the girls wore the same color and style of dress and the boys had matching pants topped by a white shirt. Life was feeling mighty fine that fall.
The weather had stayed balmy with no need yet for sweaters or coats during daytime. The Los Angeles Dodgers had just trounced the New York Yankees four games to none in the World Series. Odds of that happening had been 25 to one. According to news stories, some lucky duck had borrowed as much as he could, taken those odds, and walked away rich.
Top 40 radio station KFWB cranked out nonstop hits like Sugar Shack by Jimmy Gilmore and the Fireballs, She’s a Fool by Lesley Gore, Bossa Nova Baby by Elvis Presly and the Jordanaires, Dominique by the Singing Nun, Maria Elena by Los Indios Trabajaras, Little Red Rooster by Sam Cooke, 500 Miles Away from Home by Bobby Bare, Fools Rush In by Rick Nelson, Mean Woman Blues by Roy Orbison, Be True to Your School and In My Room by the Beach Boys, Saturday Night by The New Christy Minstrels, Can I get a Witness by Marvin Gaye, Louie Louie by The Kingsmen, Be My Baby by The Ronettes, Don’t Wait too Long by Tony Bennett, The Nitty Gritty by Shirly Ellis, and one that had just cracked the Top 100, Pain in My Heart by Otis Redding.
Of all the popular songs of the day, Otis Redding’s Pain in My Heart would prove to be the most prophetic.
November 22, 1963 fell on a Friday, which made me daydream during school time of the weekend ahead followed by a short school week because next Thursday and Friday kicked off the long Thanksgiving weekend.
Ah, Thanksgiving.
That meant tradition. Not just the Thanksgiving feast but also The Wizard of Oz, which would be broadcast nationwide. Dad’s USAF career had brought us to our Oz, Southern California, where he worked as an Air Force liaison to the aerospace industry. It was going to “put a man on the moon by the end of the decade” because President Kennedy had said so.
The space race and Dad’s part in it drew me to anything and everything even remotely related to it.
Every week the announcer for one TV show promised: “…For the next hour, sit quietly and we will control all that you see and hear. We repeat, there is nothing wrong with your television set. You are about to participate in a great adventure. You are about to experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to The Outer Limits.”
My daydream ended as someone appeared at our classroom’s front door and snatched our teacher away without a word of explanation to us. Sister’s black habit exposed only her face and hands. It and her mere presence had always been adequate to keep us in line. But her sudden exit unleashed us.
Mike McNeil began to dance an Irish jig. Girls gathered in small groups to chat. Most of us either watched the fun or chatted to a neighboring classmate. Our fun ended when our principal’s voice entered the room through the small speaker attached high on a wall.
“Children, I have some bad news. President Kennedy has been shot.”
Eleven or twelve years old, we slumped back into our desks and stared blankly.
“We need to pray,” Mother Superior continued.
As a few slid from their seats to their knees, the rest of us followed their example. We started the longest rosary of our lives, with our principal saying the first halves of many Hail Marys and we the last halves. Tears and sobs began to flow.
A short pause stopped our prayers.
“Children, President Kennedy is dead.”
Soon we were led into the large church next to the school. After the service, we were sent home before noon. There, I turned on the TV and saw a grim-faced Lyndon Baines Johnson droning on and on about how sad he and our whole country was. His words sounded phony.
He’s glad because now he gets to be President, I thought.
That evening, Dad took us to the International House of Pancakes to try and celebrate Mom’s birthday. The restaurant was packed, with customers standing and waiting for an empty table or seat at the counter. Instead of IHOP’s usual happy conversations, sad murmurs filled the air, as if we were at a wake.
Nonstop news coverage of Washington D.C.’s preparation for JFK’s funeral and Dallas’s processing of Lee Harvy Oswald, suspected assassin of the President and a police officer, replaced normal Saturday morning cartoons. The next morning, the news shifted to Oswald’s being shot and killed.
Many in church that morning wore black.
The dead president’s funeral procession and burial consumed most of Monday. It being declared a National Day of Mourning by LBJ kept most workers and students at home. Tuesday and Wednesday at school dragged until the approaching holiday sent us home.
Watching The Wizard of Oz seemed different that year.
Where was the yellow brick road to take us away from this mean, wicked world? If we could make it to the Moon before the next six years ended, why couldn’t we travel to somewhere over the rainbow? Why were we bombarded with the platitudes and promises of so many wizards masquerading as our leaders when Dorothy, the Cowardly Lion, Scarecrow, and Tinman only had to endure one Wizard? Most of all, if “there’s no place like home,” why does our nation no longer feel safe, like a home is supposed to?
Sixty years later, the questions linger.
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