I remember first hearing about it.
I remember those long three days that followed, watching the TV spellbound, even those who still thought TV was beneath us.
I
remember the pictures of the motorcade. Blood on Jackie's dress,
Cronkite delivering the news, Oswald being shot, the long lines at the
bier, little John John's salute, DeGaulle walking proudly at the head of
the cortege journeying with Blackjack and the boots turned backwards,
to Arlington. And the beat of the drums on that solemn Monday morning.
I
remember JFK almost every day of my life, the turning point in
politics, a Catholic who allayed our fears, a colorful guy full of
wisdom and humor and not afraid to be himself. A game changer.
But
for some strange reason I will also always remember the guy ahead of me
in the long line at the newspaper kiosk on that Friday afternoon at 42nd and
Broadway. The Post and Daily News were out with big headlines. When he
got to the aproned dealer he hesitated. While all of us were brushing
back the tears he alone had something to say. And in my own sorrow
this, verbatim, is what I heard.
"Is this the stockmarket final?"
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