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It seems easier to accept that it has been a half century since JFK was murdered than that most people now alive were then yet to be born.
The enormity and impact of that event were unprecedented that one feels everyone should somehow be able to remember where they were when those terrible shots were fired.
Like everyone who was old enough to grasp the fact of the young president’s assassination, I remember where I was when the news began to spread. Just turned 10, I was sitting in my second floor classroom at the Hay School, a one class per grade elementary school in Easton, Pennsylvania. There was a knock at the door, whispering, and then more quiet voices as the teachers congregated, shocked and no doubt fearful, in the hallway.
They stayed there for quite a while, leaving us to work at our desks on whatever we had been doing before. Eventually, we began to wonder what was going on, especially when we noticed through the window that all of the children in the parochial school across the alley had fallen on their knees to pray. Soon, their classrooms emptied, and the lights were turned off while we continued to sit at our desks, straining to hear what might be said outside our door.
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