November 22 – “View from a fifth-grade mind”

I was a fifth grader at Island Elementary school, now called Parker (Miss Parker was our principal at the time as well as my neighbor down the street in Gulf Village).  The rumblings began while we were at lunch.  The teachers were not nearly as invasive as they usually were.  They often delighted in going out of their way to “remind” us to “keep both feet on the floor” or “eat quickly” or “finish your milk” or the ever-popular “stop talking or you’ll never finish” or the inevitable “go back and throw your trash away.”  That day the teachers instead seemed to huddle in tight clumps, whispering feverishly and stopping all conversation quickly should a student roam nearby.  Yes, it was evident that something was up, but as per protocol at the time, students were not privy to anything of import. 

Which of course led to all sorts of attempts to fill in the blanks.  What secret could be so special that no one would let it slip?  The Dixon house was still going to be decorated for Christmas this year, wasn’t it?  It was too early to worry that something might happen with the summer baseball leagues.  It was obvious that the secret wasn’t something exciting, like a surprise party for Miss Parker or a special one-day-only early release day.  No, it couldn’t be anything like that because there was not a single grin or conspiratorial wink passing among the adults.  Everyone looked, well, grim.  Towards the end of the lunch period our very best eavesdroppers finally began to spread what little they had been able to pick up on their way to the trash cans or to ask permission for a bathroom trip.  One reported that he had clearly heard the word “president.”  And the other couldn’t be sure, but she thought it had something to do with sticking his finger in a light socket and being shocked.  And that’s all.  Nothing else.  Too careful.  Too guarded.  But why?

Well, as will generally happen in situations where vast holes of information exist, the students began using our equally vast imaginations to fill in those blanks.  Now at the time it was not a common thing for youngsters to care about politics.  Oh, we had heard some strange things over the past few years, but to us a Bay of Pigs generated a hilarious image of thousands of actual swine struggling to make their way across Offats Bayou.  The only thing we knew about the president was that he was that young guy with kind of long hair and a gorgeous wife.  Hey, we were in fifth grade.  What else do you think boys would notice?  He looked young because most of the president types we studied about in school were really old, and we had learned that you had to be really old before you could even consider running.  Forty-five.  Man, that was ancient.  And we noticed his wife because, well, did I mention we were in fifth grade?  I remember coming to the conclusion that if the guy stuck his finger in a light socket and got shocked, then maybe he wasn’t as cool as everyone thought.  No, that couldn’t be what happened.

It wasn’t until we arrived at Mrs. Littman’s music class that we were finally read into what was happening in the world.  She called us to order.  And that didn’t take much.  She had somewhat unkempt white hair and a propensity for being, well, demanding.  In a nutshell, we were pretty much scared of Mrs. Littman.  As silence fell over the room our thoughts had shifted to “John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith, his name is my name, too” and “Mine hands by my side, vas iss dat here?  Dis iss mine head-knocker, my teacher, dear.”  But Mrs. Littman stood quietly at the blackboard.  Now she had often used this technique to get our attention.  The “absolute quiet stare that was really a glare” technique.  Few could withstand it for longer than a few seconds.  She most assuredly had our attention.  And finally, with her voice breaking ever-so-slightly, she made the announcement.  “The president has been shot.”  Now, I know she said a lot more than that.  She probably gave us what little details had already been pieced together from news reports that had made their way into the school office.  But I didn’t hear any of that.  I was a fifth grade boy.  And with the other fifth grade boys in the room, we made up an indestructible force to be reckoned with.  As a few of the girls sniffed at their tears, we began planning.  The most reasonable response I remember hearing was, of course, the one I came up with.  “If I could get my hands on that guy who shot him, I would beat him to a pulp with my bare hands.”  Ah, the bravado of a ten-year-old.  To her credit, Mrs. Littman let us have our time of mini-chaos to process the news in our fifth-grade way.  I don’t think we got much singing done that day. 

And the rest of the week we barely left the television set.  We watched the funeral.  I remember being impressed with the horse-drawn carriage and I wondered why his pretty wife was forced to walk behind it.  I saw the little guy in the coat that looked like a dress salute his Daddy’s coffin like the guards all around him were doing.  I saw the footage of Oswald being shot.  We were shocked, yet eerily relieved at the seeming justice of it all. 

And then it was over.  That other, old guy was taking over as president.  And he was from Texas, so how bad could it be?  Slowly the “regular” TV shows returned to the air.  Christmas was in the wind again.  My Dad still had to go to work.  Mrs. Littman had some more goofy songs for us to sing.  And Spring Training started in April.  Maybe I could actually go to Houston and see a Colt 45’s game.  And with that, my world began to take on an order once again.  And the “order” of the bigger world?  Well, it continued on.  Trips to the moon.  War in VietNam.  Organ transplants.  Presidential scandals.  Super-Sonic Transports.  Terrorist attacks.  Home computers.  It continues on.

Colossians 1:16-17 says, “For by him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.”

Father, thank you for walking with our country through that terrible time.  Please don’t leave us alone now.  We need you more than ever.  Amen.