Mary’s Mosaic
At midday Friday, November 22, 1963, my junior high school administration announced the suddenly and immediate closure of the school day – without explanation. Boarding the school buses already idling on the roundabout parking drive all students were taken home. Somehow, by the time we debarked at my rural stop, word had reached us that the President had been shot. Approaching the front lawn of our small farm, I saw my mother holding the front door half open with her head buried in the crook of her elbow sobbing uncontrollably. I knew before I climbed the front porch that our youthful President was dead.


