I remember the adults, the teachers, they were visibly upset.

We were being let out of school early for some reason.

As I exited the rear school doorway onto the pavement that surrounded the back side of Wolf Hill School, before the school fields and playground, an older boy yelled out, “the President’s been shot.”  I crossed the school playground to the old railroad track that used to bring the coal into Fort Monmouth, then down the tracks to Pemberton Avenue, and the three small town blocks that took me to the path through the neighbor’s yard and into our backyard.

I was seven years old and in the second grade.  I don’t remember who I walked home with, I just remember sitting in front of the small black and white TV in the living room and watching events relived and unfolding for the rest of that day.

I remember my mother was upset.

President Kennedy was dead.

Assassinated.

November 22, 1963.

 

 

It was just going to be a small wedding in a friend’s backyard,  there was no need for you to come, I was told.

Well okay then, I won’t worry about it.

Besides, I am just the father, and there will be pictures, I am sure.

But I did worry about it.

So, the Friday before the wedding in the friend’s backyard, I flew into Palm Beach Airport and headed towards Fort Lauderdale in my rented Camaro.  Not knowing much about this backyard wedding, I stopped at a mall in Boca Raton to buy a new hat.  I picked up a new pair of jeans to wear to the wedding as well.  Then I headed down to Fort Lauderdale and got a hotel room near where the cruise ships docked.

The next day I put on my new jeans and hat, got in my rented Camaro, and surprised Alexa at her wedding.

I even got to dance the father-daughter dance.

And it turns out I was right for a change; I did need to be there.

November 22, 2014.

 

 

Alexa and Namaan have been married now for ten years.

It’s been 61 years since JFK’s assassination.

I am tired because I stayed up late last night to watch the Steelers get beat by the Browns, in a snowstorm.

I am monitoring the western Pennsylvania weather and that snowstorm and stressing a little because we are considering making a pre-Thanksgiving visit with Kim’s mom.

Snow in western PA before Thanksgiving?  Who would have thought?

But this morning in my History Channel email I was reminded of the events of 61 years ago; and in my Facebook memories, the events of ten years ago.

I still have those jeans, in fact, I wore them at Savannah and Leon’s wedding and Hayley and Malcolm’s as well.  They needed to be there.

And like me, they are a little worn out, a little frayed and faded, yet they remain ready for the next event.

As long as it’s not another wedding.

 

And through all this reflection, I am being reminded of “the great significance of the passage of time.”

Only this time it is making sense.

 

November 22, 2024.