The iconic question of where were you on November 22, 1963 when JFK got shot…
I know many of you don’t remember where you were 48 years ago because you weren’t born yet.
That makes me feel more than old.
It ties into the feeling I get as the leaves crinkle up as I gather them into more leaf bags while doing more raking…wondering where the time goes or does it get tossed like the pile of leaves and eventually get recycled back into the universe, somewhere else…
That makes me feel more than recent memories of 10, no 11 years ago.
I read an article yesterday that I’m not going to link to (okay I will) called When did Liberals Become so Unreasonable? The article took us through the years of Democratic presidents and how they all (according to Chait) equally disappointed the country.
I won’t disagree with that conclusion, but I do disagree with his sense of hope for today.
But it also took us back ‘way back to the days of JFK and the aura of Camelot. Of course that was just an aura and not reality. But it also was the death of dreams, when he was shot.
Do you notice how it’s always “when he was shot” and not “when he was killed?”
Oh, yes. Of course I remember where I was. I was in my sixth grade classroom and an announcement came over the intercom telling us that there had been an accident with the president. No details, of course.
No internet, no classroom TV, no discussion.
I remember no school on the day of the funeral, and I remember whittling a soap menorah at my friend Nan’s house, watching the funeral cortege on the black & white TV in the living room. I remember the horse moving so slowly.
It proves that symbols do matter.
I think we’ve been going riderless as a country for a long time now.
Maybe I should go look at some of my beautiful fall pictures and make them into my symbol to obsess over.
I like this one, going down the road.