A Tornado in November: Remembering

Dorothy repeats after the good witch, Glinda, “There’s no place like home”. Dorothy then clicks her heels three times. The makeshift sheet otherwise known as the stage curtain drops and we scurry about. The curtain rises, “Where am I?” asks, a bewildered Dorothy and in a blink of an eye we are bowing to raucous applause as the final curtain drops on Miss Buckley’s 4th grade production of the “Wizard of Oz”. Miss Buckley whistles and trumpets “Bravo” in her Boston laced accent.

As the audience of the visiting class departs, we are in high spirits. The room is buzzing with a mixture of pride, excitement and anticipation. This is the day before Thanksgiving and our last performance. Only, the young Miss Buckley, a brand new teacher would attempt a production of the Wizard of Oz with fourth graders. We are her pride and joy and we adore her. Miss Buckley’s enthusiasm is contagious, even though we’ve only been together since August, we have bonded tightly.

After removing our costumes and taking down the elaborate decorations we are all anticipating the party Miss Buckley has promised us.

Untypically, she leaves the class unsupervised as she retrieves ice cream from the faculty room freezer. It’s just down the hall , “Be back in a jiffy,” she says. The minutes pass and our excitement turns to concern. A class of fourth graders are not used to being left alone, there’s always an adult in charge. We discuss sending someone to find her. As we are deciding who will go to the office, the door opens with Miss Buckley and no ice cream.

Miss Buckley is blowing her nose and dabbing tears from her cheeks. We gather round as she tells us, “President Kennedy has been shot.” We know how much she admires him as they both come from Boston and to our ears they both pronounce idea “eye dear,” which we find amusing, so much so that we often correct her. She tells us what she knows about the shooting and tries to reassure us.

We retreat into silence, trying to make sense of what she has just said. This isn’t just any president; John Fitzgerald Kennedy, is my president. When I was six I worked on his campaign stuffing and stamping envelopes. I delivered pamphlets door to door placing them carefully under the door mat or rolled to fit between the door knob and frame. I learned it was illegal to put them in a mailbox. I watched excerpts from the Democratic Convention held in Los Angeles on our Black and White television. And on election night I was allowed to stay up until close to midnight when it looked like Kennedy might win.

Back in the classroom we hear the voice of Principal Brown, over the loudspeaker. We already know what he is going to say, “President Kennedy has been shot.” He follows with, “the bell will ring shortly and you are all to go home to your families.” And just like that the sunny, autumn day before Thanksgiving in 1963 turned our world upside down. We packed up and said goodbye in robotic fashion. All of us, just as bewildered as Dorothy awakening from the tornado in the Wizard of Oz. I lived across the street from Castro Elementary School, but I still had to travel a distance across the playground, down a set of stairs, across another playground and through the park, to get to our house on the corner. I cannot remember any of the journey. All I wanted was to be home.

As I come through the front door, my mother seems surprised to see me. The television is on. She switches the stations to find more news. Some stations have regular programming. There is confusion about the president’s condition. “Grave” I think someone said. The tones are somber and then the words, “President Kennedy is dead.” 

John F. Kennedy was the 35th President of the United States from 1961 to 1963, and the youngest man elected to the office of President. He died on November 22, 1963, the youngest President to die. Years later I would read Franz Werfel’s book ‘The Song of Bernadette’. In it he wrote “ Youth ceases at the moment when death becomes a reality to us.” Something of my youth was definitely shed that day. Like Dorothy we were uprooted and thrown into a totally new and unpredictable world and then when we returned to school on Tuesday, it was supposed to be back to normal. But the truth is, it never was the same.

Please see my Writing Challenge: Where were you when Kennedy was shot? if you are interested in doing your own writing for the 60th anniversary of JFK’s death this coming Wednesday.

Kelly Wheaton ©2023 – All Rights Reserved