Originally Written 11/23/2013
I tried to pen these thoughts a week ago, but the words just wouldn’t come.
I tried to pen these thoughts a week ago, but the words just wouldn’t come.
It’s
often been said that “bad things come in threes.” The year, 1963, may not have proven that
theory, but for me it came awfully close.
On February 13, 1963, one day before the celebration of St. Valentine,
my father died from a long bout with lung cancer. Three months later, death claimed my faithful
dog, Willie.
During
that summer, I worked at the Crane Naval Ammunition Depot as it was known in
those days. Many weeks I’d put in sixty
hours or more so that I would have enough money to return to Purdue in the fall
and help ease the financial burden on my widowed mother. I had a scholarship that paid for my tuition
and books, but we still had to pony up for room, board, and “spending money.” So, with a heavy heart I returned to
Boilermaker country in September, leaving Mother home with her new dachshund,
Greta.
Friday,
November 22, 1963, dawned pretty much like any other day. I worked part-time in the dorm cafeteria. That morning I was in the serving line dipping
up the scrambled eggs, bacon, and other breakfast foods before heading to campus. Unlike most colleges, Purdue started classes
on the “half-hour” rather than at the top of the hour. And, in 1963, Purdue was on Central Standard
Time, the same as Dallas, Texas.
I
had a 1:30 economics class at Stanley Coulter Hall and always drove to class
early to seek one of the elusive open parking spaces. That afternoon I got lucky and found one
right away. I was listening to music in
my old ‘56 Dodge when a DJ interrupted, saying that President Kennedy had been
shot and we should stay tuned for further details. Not realizing how serious this truly was, I turned
off the radio and entered the building.
After ascending the monstrous Stanley Coulter main staircase, I saw a
note on the classroom door stating that all Friday and Saturday classes at
Purdue had been cancelled. Only then did
I know the worst, bad things do come
in threes.
The
next day, Saturday, was sunny, warm, and beautiful. The annual Purdue/IU Old Oaken Bucket football
game was scheduled in Bloomington, but like nearly every game throughout the
land, it was postponed a week until the Saturday after Thanksgiving. I had planned to drive to Elnora, pick up my
mom, and take her to her first college football game, but we would now have to
wait a week for a cold, snowy day to see Purdue recapture the Bucket.
But,
on the “Kennedy” weekend, I worked in the cafeteria, did my own “gig” as a DJ
on the Purdue Residence Network, studied very little, and watched the constant
news evolving on TV. On Sunday, 15-20 of us sat in the basement TV
room and lost even more innocence as we witnessed the assassination of Lee
Harvey Oswald by Jack Ruby live in black and white.
I
was just 19 years old and had already learned the life lessons of impermanence. By then I had been afflicted by polio, had
lost my grandparents, my father, my dog, and now the nation had lost its
President. Healing takes time and comes
in different forms for different people.
The recent TV specials about “that day in Dallas” brought back so many
memories, and I realize I’m still grieved by those events of over fifty years
ago.
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