50 years after: A call to rememberance of JFK

Over half of our nation’s present population was not born when the events of late November, 1963, took place. So these younger generations can never fully appreciate the impact which JFK’s assassination had upon the psyche of this nation.

I was just 28 years old and still had much to learn about the realities and pitfalls of this earthly existence. But the bullet that shattered our young president’s skull also went far toward shattering my illusions, and those of the entire nation, about the real nature of America and her people.

It is often said that we lost our innocence that day. Actually, we had been in the process of losing that innocence for quite a long time. The terrible events of that long-ago week simply awakened us to that fact. We suddenly were brought face-to-face with the reality that as a people, we were just as flawed and depraved as the rest of humanity. Although the hand of Providence had blessed us far above what any nation before us had ever experienced, we had come to take those privileges for granted, and largely misused them. It had only been a matter of time before we would be called to account for those abuses. I think Nov. 23, 1963, marked the beginning of our conscious awareness of that accountability.

I was never a fan of JFK. But his tragic death, and all the events attending it, nevertheless made a profound impact upon me, my life and my view of the country. Although I could not put a name on it at the time, I sensed that a tremendous shift was taking place in our entire national fabric. It was a mostly uneasy feeling then, and as this shift has accelerated and turned more radical over the years since, my sense of alienation from the thing my country has become is nearly complete. That breaks my heart, and as did the Prophet Jeremiah, I weep for my people and my nation.

But harkening back to that terrible time in that Novemeber of 50 years ago, I now suspect that the national outpouring of grief was not only for the death of our president, but also for the demise of something very vital to the well-being of our country’s soul and spirit.

Of the several vivid memories I have of that three or four day period, the one that has haunted me the most over the years was the televised broadcast of the proceedings at Arlington National Cemetery the day of the funeral. There was something surreal about that whole affair; the great and near-great living personalities and world leaders gathered together in somber silence, surrounded by the legions of interred dead, the pomp and circumstance of diplomatic protocol upstaged by the innocent antics of the dead president’s three-year-old son.

That whole scene so moved me that I returned home and wrote the following bit of verse. Even now when I read it, the whole panorama of that dark day comes flooding back in memory, especially the graveside scene.

The Shattering of Camelot: JFK-On the Day of His Burial

Princes, rulers, the great of the earth;

Countrymen, family; yea, my own small son:

They follow me to the brink, but no further.

They stand there,…and I lie here,…

With a bridgeless gulf between.

Now they all turn and slowly move away.

They have life left to live and battle yet to wage,

So they must leave me here. Alone.

The short days ago I left them.

There short days ago I moved among them, was one of them.

Then in a breath, I was not.

Three bitter days have they grieved and sought to believe,

But could not. Now today, they begin to believe.

I am with them no more.

They stood there,…and I lie here,…

With a bridgeless gulf between.

So they have now turned and walked away, leaving me here.

Alone.