The dark day of November 22, 1963 

By Julie Berry Traynor

Cleaver Guest Writer

Everyone who is old enough to remember what happened felt the shockwave across America, recall exactly where they were when they heard about the assassination of the 35th President of the United States, John F. Kennedy. These days, 61 years later, a good share of us who carry that vivid memory were in a school somewhere in America, large or small, north, south, east, west, black or white.

Friday, November 22, 1963, dawned clear and cold in these parts. Enough snow had fallen earlier in the month to please the deer hunter invasion on the 15th. Almost everyone had deer season ‘company’ and a buck or two hanging from an apple tree or in the barn. It was business as usual in Winterfield, late in the year.

At the Grandon School, deer season excitement and general restlessness for the much-anticipated short school week was running high. Thanksgiving was just six days away. The break would begin on Wednesday at noon. Thanksgiving Day fell on November 28, just as it did this year.

Our bus, piloted by Melvin Berkompas, delivered us, as usual. We settled into our daily routine at Winterfield’s two-room, eighth-grade Grandon School by 9 a,m. The twenty or so students composing the higher grades of 5th through 8th worked through the last hours of education before the weekend. All went as usual and uneventfully, including lunch and the noon recess. By1pm we were into the afternoon class routine. Restlessness aside, the week would soon be done.

About 1:45pm the classroom was jarred by a rare occurrence. We all stared at the phone for a long moment, including Bob Dunn, our teacher. If there was any place where a phone could ring and startle everyone, it was in our classroom. Calls to our school were never a wrong number. The ring of the phone meant important news for someone, or all of us.  

Bob Dunn (this is what we called him), the newly minted teacher of the upper grades, rose from his desk at the front of the room and strode to the corner window where the black, desk phone sat.

“Hello. Grandon School.” he answered. Then he was silent.

Bob Dunn listened for what seemed like an eternity. Then he thanked the voice on the other end and hung up. He turned to the room and said he was going to speak with Mrs. (Wava) Boonstra, the lower grades teacher.  We were to behave.

Soon both teachers returned, took the phone into the stairway, and closed the door. We heard dialing and mumbled voices. Our curiosity was further piqued. This was serious business, and we speculated among ourselves. Was a blizzard approaching?  A forest fire? Were we under enemy or alien attack? In those days, either seemed possible. The Cuban missile crisis was very recent and a mushroom cloud on the horizon would have surprised no one. It was a real possibility.

Bob Dunn reappeared, put the phone back in the window, and turned on the school’s radio. He explained why as it warmed up. The earlier call was from a school neighbor to tell us about the reported assassination of President John F. Kennedy in Dallas, Texas, that very afternoon.

The radio zeroed in on a local channel, repeating the unreal news. The young, vibrant and very popular President of the United States was dead. Walter Cronkite, the most trusted newsman in America told us so. It was true. This was a tremendous thing for us to absorb and reactions ranged from tears and disbelief to stunned silence. How could it be that the President was dead?   

Of course, we knew all about Abraham Lincoln’s assassination and what it meant in America. His picture, along with that of George Washington was standard and displayed somewhere in every school for years. John Kennedy and his ‘Camelot’ presidency was a special time in America. 

In Hindsight, that marvelous gift, I am compelled to say that you truly had to know those times to understand them. They were my generation’s Pearl Harbor; our first horrific collective memory. For the rest of our days, we know where we were when JFK was shot, and in the days that followed. Sadly, this was not the last powerful day in America.

From our living rooms, we watched the Kennedy saga play out over four days. We witnessed Jack Ruby shoot accused assassin Lee Harvey Oswald live, on our black and white televisions. We saw JFK interred at Arlington National Cemetery under an eternal flame, where he rests to this day.

Twenty-five years ago, we visited Washington D.C. and took the tour of Arlington, stopping at the Kennedy grave sites. For me, standing at the foot of John Kennedy’s grave under the eternal flame was tremendously moving and brought unexpected tears. Then, as now, those memories are deep and vivid.