Senior class has a trip to Washington D.C. every year. Visit the monuments, the museums, surrounding sites like Williamsburg, etc. While walking around the colonial village, a girl runs up.
They’ve shot the president. He’s dying?
With somewhat of a guffaw
You don’t joke about something like that.
It’s not a joke.
Go someplace, did not matter, to pray. We then go back to the hotel. The evening’s dance is canceled, we just sit around, talk quietly, numbed. The weather had been simply fantastic. Now it rained and rained. Standing drenched outside the white house, waiting for something, anything to happen.
November 22, 1963.