I was a fifth grader at Rountree Elementary School in Springfield, Missouri, in Miss Luna's class on the second floor, when we learned that President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated. My primary recollection was my young teacher in tears. We watched television for the remainder of the afternoon.
Three days later, we watched the funeral. I recall watching Caroline and John, thinking that they were the same age as my younger sisters. Even as a ten year old, I was intrigued by the history of the riderless horse with empty boots backwards in the stirrups, and the caisson following, carrying the President's casket.
In my adult years, I visited President Kennedy's grave at Arlington National Cemetery twice, and also Dealey Plaza in Dallas, the site of the assassination. Standing at these locations causes a flood of memories and a wave of emotion, even for someone who was just a child at the time of these momentous events.
No one of my generation will ever forget precisely where they were on the afternoon of November 22, 1963, and on the morning of September 11, 2001.