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I was in kindergarten and had just arrived at the afternoon session when I noticed a group of teachers standing in the hallway. I went into my class. We seemed to sit there for quite awhile. Our teacher came in and told us we were being sent home. Our teacher didn't say why. I remember kids are on the bus were crying but I didn't know why. I ran into the house and run up to my mom's bedroom to let her know I was home. I found her sitting on the bed watching Walter Cronkite. This was the first time I saw my mom cry. She told me the president had been shot and killed. Oddly enough, we ended up being in DC for the funeral because my mom had made arrangements weeks earlier for the family to spend Thanksgiving with my oldest brother who was a senior at Georgetown University that fall. I remember how cold it was; the sky was a deep blue but it was cold, standing for what seemed like hours. I did not see the Oswald shooting live but my brother Byron saw it on the motel TV and he was shaken by it. He was 12 at the time. The most striking memory was - no matter where we went that week - no one talked, no one laughed, there was no music on the radio in the car, and the TV only showed scenes of the funeral. At least it seemed like that. The day after the funeral, we went to the grave site. My mother - who was the same age as JFK - she is 92 now - was badly shaken by his death and wanted to see the grave. I remember my brother Mark putting me up on his shoulders so I could see. The whole area was packed with silent people. When we were getting ready to leave, a group of cars pulled up and Jackie and Caroline stepped out and went to the grave. My brother told me, there's the presedent's daughter, she's the same age as you. (Caroline is 1 month older than me.) I remember being startled by that thought - she had lost her father.

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