Each and every Valentine’s Day, I recall a poem by screenwriter Samuel Hoffenstein that I learned in high school. It still makes me laugh:
When you’re away, I’m restless, lonely,
Wretched, bored, dejected; only
Here’s the rub, my darling dear,
I feel the same when you are near.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
It’s true: If you’re of a certain age, you know where you were on November 22 in 1963, the day that President John F. Kennedy was assassinated.
Television (Photo credit: Medhi)
I was at school, a 9-year-old kid on a Friday afternoon, looking forward to a weekend of hanging out with my friends in the rec room, playing my sister’s records, enacting little dramas that starred my Barbie and Ken dolls.
But that was the weekend that wasn’t.
Teachers started moving from classroom to classroom. They whispered to each other. They held crumpled tissues in their hands.
We were led into the school’s “Materials Center,” and under the watchful eyes of the red-headed librarian, we sat quietly, focused on the flickering black-and-white tv.
The president has been shot. He may be dead. He may not be dead.
It was then official: “The president of the United States is dead.”
When I got home, the television was on. My mom had been ironing and watching As the World Turns when she heard the news.
I can still remember those images on the television set, Walter Cronkite’s face, the sound of his voice, Jackie climbing out of the back seat of the limo to reach out to the Secret Service agent.
How did she have the courage to do that? I imagined that if I were in that situation, I would have covered my head and scrunched down on the floor.
I remember being so moved by her heroic reaction. Would I ever be able to do something like that?
The strange, stinging drama played out on the screen, almost in slow motion although everything happened so fast.
One hour after Kennedy died, Lyndon Johnson was sworn in as president, while Jackie looked on, dazed, still wearing her blood-stained suit.
I remember thinking that it seemed harsh and callous to swear in a new president while we were all waiting for the old president to come back to life.
My dad said that the new president was sworn in right away because there had to be a leader in place. This made me afraid, as if something darker, more evil could be on its way, and someone needed to be in charge to shout out orders.
A few hours later, at 5 pm, we watched the televised landing of a coffin arriving in Washington D.C. How did everyone get packed up and fly across the country so quickly?
Before midnight, we learned that the police had arrested a gunman named Lee Harvey Oswald. How had that scenario happened?
We went to bed, stunned, trying to sort out this new reality. We got up in the morning and turned on the television, hoping for answers.
The new reality was still baffling: There was a flag-draped casket in the White House. President Kennedy’s famous rocking chair was unceremoniously rolled out through a side door.
We stayed glued to the tv set and watched other people watching tvs in front of department store displays, people gathering in town squares and in churches, people marching with torches and carrying signs. The entire world was grieving, some weeping, some with blank expressions. We were all on the same channel: There was not one person alive who did not know—could not not know–what was happening during this place in time and history.
I learned new words: Catafalque. Cortege. Caisson.
On Sunday, November 24, there was more pomp and circumstance as the casket went from the White House to the Capitol in a dramatic, slow-moving procession with funereal drums and the clip clop of horses. Then there were eulogies and proclamations, dignitaries and condolences, kneeling and whispers—all quiet and controlled.
In contrast to that solemnity, we got to see a live murder on tv as Jack Ruby pulled out a gun and shot Oswald right in the gut.
I didn’t know it then, but we were ushering in a new era of watching people get shot on television. It was going to be different from the usual fare, which included shows like Dick Van Dyke, The Flintstones, Mister Ed, and Andy Griffith.
The world had gone mad, yet there was an order, a surreal serenity. I still wanted to know: How did so many people know what to do?
On Monday, November 25, we watched the funeral, a solemn parade led by a jumpy, riderless horse named Black Jack. In his stirrups there were black boots, facing backwards, a symbol of a fallen leader.
I wondered how all of this was put together, so impeccable and calibrated, so dramatically arranged. Was there a plan laid out in a secret folder that had been labeled: “Here’s What We’ll Do If the President Is Assassinated”?
How did Jackie decide what to wear? When did she have time to shop for mourning clothes? I remember the voices on tv talking about her choice of veil.
The performances of both man and beast were nothing short of mesmerizing—even the one from little John-John who raised his hand into a salute as his father’s casket passed by. He was only three!!! And here he was making a perfectly innocent, sweet, and painful gesture that moved us all to tears. How in the world did this precious boy in the double-breasted coat know that he should do that? Most three-year olds I knew would have been all wriggling and squealing.
The summer before the assassination, our family took a road trip to Washington, a sort of homage to the Kennedys, I suppose. They were rock stars! We got to walk around the White House, the place where they lived! Caroline’s pony Macaroni was eating grass in the yard!
As part of our trip, we visited Arlington Cemetery, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and graves of WWII vets my father had known from his time in the war. It was such a sad and moving day. As we stood on a hill overlooking the fields of white headstones, my mom said, “Somebody important is going to be buried here.”
My whole family felt a bit unsettled, especially my mom, when we saw that they were burying the president in the exact same place where we had stood on that hill.
I was confused and scared during those days, and I also felt inadequate. All I could do was sit there and watch television…and wonder how so much calm could be happening while the chaos of loss swallowed us whole.
But something was coming to light: If everyone knew what they were supposed to do during times like these, maybe it was because such devastating things happened before. Maybe Tragedy was always in the wings, waiting to make another entrance when you least expect it. Maybe I was learning lessons about life a little faster than I wanted to.
Five days later, on November 29, The Beatles released their single “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” How in the world did John, Paul, George, and Ringo know that was exactly the song that I wanted–and needed–to hear?
English: Ford Mustang – Year 1964 Deutsch: Ford Mustang Bj. 1964 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
In 1964, Gail Wise, a young woman in Chicago, bought the first Mustang ever sold. It was a baby blue convertible hidden away under a tarp in the back of a showroom.
As reported in a story by A.J. Baime in the Nov. 13 Wall Street Journal, Ms. Wise bought the car “two days before the Mustang was introduced at the New York World’s Fair.”
Many years ago, a friend once let me drive his blue Mustang. I remember the thrill of that like it was yesterday.
At first I thought I was drawn to Ms. Wise’s story because it was about a blue Mustang. But then I realized it was more than that. The Tale of her Mustang is full of lessons to live by:
1. Believe in yourself.
So here she was: a new college grad, with a new job, and she was going to get a new car–ready to drive forward on the next phase of her life’s journey.
2. Know what you want.
And Ms. Wise absolutely knew that she wanted a convertible.
3. Ask for help when you need it.
The car that she was dreaming of wasn’t on the showroom floor, but she didn’t turn around and leave the dealer. She asked for help.
4. Make positive human connection.
The salesman invited her to the back of the showroom to check out a car that was under a tarp. I can imagine him enjoying this young woman’s determination and enthusiasm. He was willing to help her achieve her dream.
5. Take risks.
She–and most of the world–had never heard of a Mustang before, but she was willing to give it a go.
6. Have fun.
When she drove out of the dealership, Wise said that she felt “like a movie star!”
7. Hold on to what you love.
Almost 50 years later, she still takes that car on the road.
The first buds of spring pop open and here we go — the unfurling of leaves! the burst of flowers! Most palpable is that resurrection/birth buzz in the air that fills us with a sense of urgency to scrub, to plant, to do.
A big part of the fun is seeing the Moms and Dads stream into the park with their aspirations, sporting gear, and kids in tow.
“Let me show you something,” they say. Kids are lucky when they have parents who teach them how to do things.
This weekend, I saw one man trying to teach his son how to catch with a mitt. (Dad also needs to help the poor kid learn to throw.) A father of red-haired twins demonstrated soccer ball passing techniques that were way beyond his kids’ abilities, but they were having the time of their lives.
One cool mom ran around with a kite, her young ones chasing after her, sharing a collective groan when the kite nose-dived to the ground, hurrahing in a collective cheer when the wind swept up the kite so far and fast that it became only a speck against the blue sky.
And then I saw a young dad teaching his daughter how to ride a bicycle.
My dad was one of those dads willing to take the time and effort to show and share. Over the years, he taught me how to ice skate, swim, read a map, play horseshoes, drive a car, love books, hit a baseball, do crosswords, laugh at the Marx Brothers, polish shoes, mow the grass, put up a Christmas tree, make people feel welcome. He taught me to sing out loud with abandon and ignore the people who might squelch your enthusiasm with their critical looks.
But the day he taught me how to ride a bike? That was especially magical.
We were in the park across the street from our house. My sister, reluctantly, let us use her dark blue Schwinn. Perched on the seat, I could barely reach the pedals.
My dad said, “Don’t worry. I got ya.” He held the back of the bike seat with one hand, the handlebar with the other.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded, but not ready at all.
“Go!” he said, still holding the bike while he ran alongside of me.
I tried to stay steady but the bike was tippy and out of control. I felt helpless. I wanted to cry and quit. My dad laughed and rubbed my back. “That’s OK,” he said. “You’ll get it.”
He would buoy my spirit, take a deep breath, and do it again. And again.
At last, in a surprising momentous second, a miraculous moment in time, I felt some kind of internal trigger kick in and connect me to a weird power of the universe. Balance!
As soon as this shocking awareness of balance hit me, I felt the sudden rush of another sensation. Trust! A giddy, I-can-do-this belief in myself that filled me with unbridled Hallelujah joy.
Wide-eyed, I looked over at my dad. “Don’t look at me!” he said. “Keep going!”
I looked away from him and set my sights straight ahead. “Atta girl!” he kept saying, running next to me. “Atta girl,” he said, clapping. Clapping? I realized he had let go of the bike. I was on my own.
Freedom! Exhilaration! Independence! With the wind in my face, hair blowing behind me, I pedaled that bicycle for all I was worth, full speed ahead.
“Atta girl,” I heard my dad shout from somewhere behind me.
I felt like I could fly.
Learning to ride a bike may be one of the greatest moments in any kid’s life.
And that little girl in the park. I had to stop and watch. She was about 10, sitting on an adult-sized bicycle, barely able to reach the pedals. She wore a brand new bike helmet on her head.
Her dad steadied her, talked her through it. Over and over. Finally, she got it. I saw her dad let go of the bike while he kept jogging alongside of her.
I’m not sure she noticed he had let go.
When she passed me, I shot her a big smile. She gave me a sideways glance and smiled back, then quickly refocused her eyes on the path ahead. In that split second of our shared smiles, I saw in her eyes a combination of fear, triumph, surprise, optimism, and what-the-hell-just-happened? That jubilant moment of balance and trust when you realize you can believe in yourself. And with that bit of knowledge, you can do almost anything.
So spring bursts open for us about this time every year. If we’re lucky, we can be transformed.
Gloria Bowman 