A scary, puzzling time for a first-grader

The lunch bell rang, and we lined up at the door of our first-grade classroom. “Bring all your books with you. You’re all going home,” Sister Francis Marie said with a cracking voice. Excited that we were being sent home for the day, we were herded out into the hallway and toward the door of the school.

My friend, Mary, nudged me, giggling. “Look,” she whispered. “The sisters are crying.” We had never seen nuns cry, just as we had never seen the skin on their covered legs or the purple feathers they claimed to have, rather than hair, under their wimples. I knew something was wrong.

My mother was on the front porch crying. She was a Kennedy Camelot devotee; she had taken to wearing pillbox hats. Her self-proclaimed connection to Jackie was strong. I was the age of Caroline and my brother was the same age as John-John. “Our great president has been shot,” she cried. I hugged her, also weeping, because it seemed to be the right thing to do.

Later that day, we decided to continue with our planned weekend trip from our home in Fort Wayne, Ind., back to visit grandparents in Evergreen Park. Driving along Route 30 through small towns, I saw flickering TV images through the windows of taverns, diners and homes — the limousine, a map of Texas, an official-looking ambulance. Stopping in a cafe to use the bathroom, I remember people crying and whispering. I felt scared and sad. The breath of fresh air that had moved into the White House was gone.

Diane Malsom

Arlington Heights