like everybody else, i remember exactly where i was when i heard the news: on the school bus, coming home from first grade on a sunny thursday in houston. we were especially raucous that day--only reason i remember this is because, after our bus driver stood up, turned to face us, asked for quiet and told us what had just happened up in dallas, the utter silence the rest of the ride home was deafening.
i remember the bleak stillness up and down birdwood road as i got off the bus and trudged home that day--the street was completely devoid of life. i remember my mother sitting open-mouthed and silent in front of the television when i walked in the door.
as that grim, black-&-white weekend played itself out, three things made an indelible impression on my young psyche: (1) the tv on continuously, with that flag-draped coffin the centerpiece of almost every shot; (2) my mother's sudden cries of "oh my god, they shot him!" as the assassination of the assassin unfolded before her very eyes; and (3) every neighbor who had casually and robustly wished for the downfall of the king being struck dumb with horror when it actually happened.
and to this day--as cynical as i am, and knowing all that i now know about the dark side of camelot--whenever i look up and realize november 22 has rolled around again, it all comes back in a flash.
