Scribblings

Forty Years Ago ...

The media has been full of stories and articles about President Kennedy’s assassination forty years ago today. I remember it. Before I see the memory in my mind, though, I am totally struck by “forty years ago”. I remember the last time I heard that phrase. In was in 1985, and the newspapers were commemorating D-Day. People were interviewed about their memories of the day and I thought to myself wow! How weird to be able to look back so long ago and bring this memory back to life!

And now here I am, looking back and remembering. Once I wrote a little short piece about where I was that day and what I thought about when the terrible news came over the loudspeaker. That little memoir follows this entry.

I think Kennedy’s assassination ended “the good guy always wins” belief I had in my 8 year old head. Sometimes the bad guy wins. Sometimes no one wins. It’s a hard realization when you think of it. What is the point of being a good guy if you’re not going to win? It isn’t fair … and that’s the beginning of learning that life isn’t always fair. Often, it’s not fair.

Why are there people without homes and enough food?
Why can some predators “get away” (not get caught) with sexually abusing children?
Why can politicians and government officials lie and then seem to get away with it?
Why does it seem like the good guys die young and the bad guys seem to live forever?

I wonder what our lives would be like if President Kennedy hadn’t been assassinated. Would we have had the same nasty mess in Viet Nam? Would all those civil rights laws have been passed? Would Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy have been assassinated? Would things be better or worse for us?

When I was younger, I used to wonder why God would take so many “good” people before they realized their full potential. I was demoralized by all the assassinations. How would we get along without so many idealistic minds? Well, now I don’t think God set out to take the Kennedys and Martin Luther King. It happened because there are people out there with a twisted sense of right and wrong and the victims were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

For better or worse, we have gotten along without the Kennedys and MLK.

I try not to think about Iraq and Afghanistan and other troubled spots in the world. If I think about our military personnel over there, I just get mad. I don’t think we should be in Iraq, period. We have not brought Osama bin Laden or Saddam Hussein to justice. The terrorists hate us and manage to kill more of our people every day. I’m frustrated because I feel helpless. That’s why I try not to think about what’s happening.

Getting back to 40 year old memories, from now on I’ll have my set in my mental data base. I don’t remember D-Day, of course, but there have been many movies and specials and books about it. I knew about it second hand. But I’ll have a more livid memory of the Viet Nam war. I’ll be able to flash back to 1969 on the 40th anniversary of Neil Armstrong’s walk on the moon. In the same way, I’ll flash back 4 years to the anniversary of President Nixon’s resignation, the hostages held in Iran for a year, Desert Storm (the first Iraqi war), the Berlin Wall coming down, and so many other events I’ve lived through.

I have a sense of awe about the memories, a sense of wow, this was a big deal and I actually remember it!

My first hero was Roy Rogers. He was known as the “singing cowboy” and he had this beautiful Palomino horse named Trigger, a German Shepherd dog named Bullet, a loyal wife named Dale, and a funny sidekick named Gabby Hayes. He was my first hero because he was the first one on television I know of who stopped the bad guys. He carried it out with such style, too. Those bad guys stayed down!

Roy Rogers had a series that was shown on Saturday mornings when I was a little kid. That would be ancient history -- the late 50s to early 60s!! All heroes, whether they are on TV or not, eventually let you down. Roy let me down in November 1963.

It was sometime after lunch time and I was back in my third grade classroom. I can almost see me at my desk, head bent and scribbling furiously. I was always writing some story.

The principal broke in with an announcement that shocked us. President Kennedy had been ambushed and shot in Dallas, Texas.

Almost immediately, I began to play a movie in my mind imagining how everything happened.

Dallas was an old cowboy and horse town way out in the middle of the desert. Some tumbleweed rolled by. The stagecoach driver flicked the reins rapidly, trying to get the horses to gallop harder. The President stuck his head out so he could see to aim his six-shooter.

The bad guys, wearing black hats of course, drew closer. Their thin cruel mouths shouted threats at the President. One of them began to fire a rifle – one that looked just like the Rifleman’s. Suddenly, the President gave a cry and fell back.

“Whoa, whoa!” the driver shouted, pulling back on the reins now.

“Heh heh!” one of the bad guys chuckled evilly. “Now we get the gold!”

Just then, Bullet came streaking over the hill. Right on his heels came Trigger, with Roy Rogers whooping and hollering.

“Let’s get out of here!” Suddenly, the rough tough bad guys had become sniveling crybabies. They beat their horses’ flanks with their hats and ran away as fast as they could.

Meanwhile, the driver jumped down and yanked open the door. Roy Rogers pulled up and jumped down from Trigger. “Mr. President? Are you all right?” he asked worriedly.

The driver had given the President a kerchief to hold against the little crease on his forehead. No one shot in the head ever had anything worse than those little creases.
“I’m fine,” the President said valiantly. “Go get them, Roy!”

My hero leaped agilely back onto Trigger’s back and off they went. He would chase the bad guys, catch them, rope and hog-tie them and drag them back for justice.

And at that moment, I heard my principal clear his throat to speak over the P.A. again. He announced very solemnly that the President was dead. My teacher gasped, jumped up and ran from the room. The rest of us looked at each other, scared.

Not only was I scared, I was also very confused. This was not supposed to happen! Roy Rogers was supposed to save the day. What happened? Had he gotten lost? Not ridden Trigger hard enough? How could the President die of a crease wound to the head?

The TV was not on at our house when I got home, shock and betrayal churning in my tummy. My mother was deaf and we only watched TV at night. I told her that the President was dead. She took one look at me and realized I wasn’t kidding. I told her to turn on the TV. I got my first look at what Dallas, Texas looked like on November 22, 1963.

Shoot. This wasn’t some dusty cow town. It was a city, with paved roads and grass and big buildings. There wasn’t a stagecoach, either, just a big long limo with its top down. And watching the clips from TV it was pretty obvious that it was no crease that killed the President.

Still, I felt like Roy Rogers had let us all down. The good guys don't always win after all. :(