"Where were you when you heard the news?" my grandson asked. "Did you cry?"
"I had just had my hair cut and was driving home," I said. "I heard it on the car radio, and I could tell which of the people I saw on the street had heard the news and which had not, just by the looks on their faces and the way they were walking along. Did I cry? Yes, dear, I cried all the way home, and, watching it later on TV, for most of the three days that followed, too. We all did."
On that fateful afternoon, my mother was in Kaufmann's Department Store, returning a defective leather trash bag.
"It's supposed to sit on the floor of the car," she explained to the saleslady, "between the driver seat and the passenger seat, but it won't stay put. I think some of the sand has leaked out. I'd like my money back, please."
The clerk's face was a study in sadness. She had been crying. "Oh, Mam," she said, "Our President has been shot!"
For a reason known only to herself, my mother assumed the saleslady meant the president of the company that manufactured the automobile trash bags. "How awful!" she said. "But does that mean you can't give me my money back?"
The clerk's expression changed to one of anger. "Listen, lady," she said. "Our President has just been shot!"
"Yes," my mother replied. "I heard you, and I am truly sorry, but does that mean I don't get my money back?"
The saleslady's look of total disgust made my mother pause and think for a few seconds. "Which president?" she asked at last.
"The President of the United States, for God's sake, lady! The President of the United States! John Kennedy!"
"Oh, Dear God!" my mother said.
Without thought now of the defective leather trash bag on the counter top where it lay, she rushed through the first floor of the store. "The President has been shot!" she said to everyone she saw. "President Kennedy has been shot!"
Almost blindly, people began following her, many looking stunned, some sobbing openly. Of one mind, they went up to the television floor, and joined those already gathered there to watch the grim history unfold.
Each of us old enough on that day in November have our story to tell. This was my mother's.