November 22, '63

Where I Was This Moment

After a historical event, there’s always the proverbial question, “Do you remember where you were?” I do on several occasions: the 9/11 terrorist tragedy in 2001, the first moon landing by Apollo 11 on July 20, 1969, and just recently the election of our first black president. But my most vivid memory dates back to the early 1960s, because it’s a tale of two anniversaries. For me and Anita, it was the beginning of a magnificent marriage. For John F. Kennedy, it was the end of a promising presidency.

On an early Friday afternoon, I was relaxing on my mother’s couch in North Miami, nodding on and off, while watching the early afternoon movie on a small black-and-white TV.

Then an announcement wakes me up: “The president has been shot.” I don’t recall the film, but I’ll never forget the look on Walter Cronkite’s face after I flipped the channel to CBS following the first TV report shortly before 2 p.m. Forty years later, the retired Cronkite told The Early Show his memories of that day remained vivid.

Then a bulletin from CBS News: “In Dallas, Texas, three shots were fired at President Kennedy’s motorcade in downtown Dallas. The first reports say that President Kennedy has been seriously wounded by this shooting.”

I watched a fairly calm Cronkite become unsettled. Then a hint of tears as it was made official on November 22, 1963: “President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. Central Standard Time, 2 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, some 38 minutes ago.”

I phoned Anita in a shaky voice, she recalls, and asked: “Should we still get married today?”

“Yes,” she said, without hesitation.

I called the South Florida daily newspaper in Fort Lauderdale where I was news editor and asked if I was needed. “Get married,” the boss said.

I asked my mother for guidance. “Get married,” she advised.

I called the minister. “Get married,” he said.

Then friends started phoning me. We decided the wedding was on. The nuptials were performed in a Miami church about four hours after those fatal shots were fired in Dallas. I distinctly remember Anita, who was born 98 miles south in Waco, saying, “I do.”

Surprisingly, it was a crowded reception, held at the home of Anita’s best friend. It was fairly upbeat and, I believe, helped reduce the anguish of all.

For our honeymoon, I had two days off. I was scheduled back at work the following Sunday afternoon. Naturally, the TV in Anita’s apartment went on in the morning because Lee Harvey Oswald was being transferred from the Dallas jail.

We got up early, sipped instant coffee and watched. We saw Oswald’s face. We saw a figure rush into view from the back. Bang! Jack Ruby shoots Oswald. We gasped.

One evening several years later in a South Florida bar, a guy began a conversation with me about the fateful day.

“I’ll bet you $1,000 Kennedy was killed on a Thursday,” the foolish man said. And he wasn’t drunk.

“No, it wasn’t,” I said. “I know because I was married on that Friday.”

“Is it a bet?” he pressed.

“I only have $20,” I lied.

“It’s a bet,” he said eagerly.

We agreed to abide by whatever the local newspaper librarian said. He phoned The Miami Herald, where I was an editor and a writer. The guy wasn’t happy when he learned the bad news. But he forked over $20. I was humble and bought him a drink.

The only bright spot remembering November 22 - I never forget our wedding anniversary. This year we celebrate Number 45. It calls for sapphire jewelry. I hope Anita likes another pair of earrings.