They say most people recall where they were the moment they heard the news about the assassination of John F. Kennedy.
Personally, I was in the midst of a 6th grade class in Scarborough (Ontario/Canada) when our teacher was suddenly summoned to the Principal’s office out-of-the-blue that frosty November morn.
Judging by the startled look that erupted across her face - as she quietly read a note handed off from a somber page who bit his lip as he stood at attention at her desk - something mighty serious was up.
After directing the students to carry on with a prepared assignment, the normally-unflappable teach dashed out the door, without glancing back.
A short time later, she returned calm and composed, as she cleared her throat to make an announcement.
“President John F. Kennedy has been shot,” she managed to utter up, just as a wave of emotion swept over her slightly-built frame.
At this point, the teacher instructed us to bow our heads, as she recited a prayer for the slain politician.
Actually, that fateful day ended up being a dramatic one for me on my own home front, so-to-speak.
Earlier that morning - I was heading off to the schoolyard with my head in the clouds (thinking my thoughts as usual) - when a bully dashed up out-of-nowhere and kicked me harshly in the butt with a pointed steel-tipped shoe.
Stung by the blow - both physically and emotionally - I veered off the beaten-path to lick my wounds.
As I idly strolled down the train tracks I reflected on my short topsy-turvy life to date.
Because I was a popular kid in the neighborhood - and the class clown (who was liked by most everyone and popular in a romantic-sense with the girls) - the unwarranted attack was difficult to fathom.
As I kicked a few pebbles this way ‘n that, I happened to glance up to get my bearings, when I suddenly caught sight of my foster mother fuming at the wheel of her compact auto about a hundred feet or so away.
One of the other charges of the Children’s Aid Society must have sprinted back to the big old rambling house on Eglinton Street to tattle about the incident and report on my subsequent whereabouts.
At the curb, I was quickly interrogated through an open window on the passenger side of the vehicle, before I was coaxed inside.
Shortly after I was dropped off at school, and firmly ensconced in my class, I was called down to the principal’s office where I immediately caught sight of my attacker.
The young woman - who physically lashed out at me earlier so cruelly at the side of the road without any provocation - awkwardly arose from a cold hard bench in the hallway and apologized for kicking me like a common dog.
Even still, I was determined to high-tail it out of there.
For some inexplicable reason, I hatched up a plan to hop on my bike after school, and run away to Oshawa to visit Gramma and Poppa.
Though the forty-mile seat-of-the-pants road-trip was a daunting one - especially when you consider that the blinding glare of the headlights was constantly smacking me in the face - I managed to cruise silently into the quiet driveway on Kilmaurs Avenue just around midnight.
Suddenly, I was overcome with panic, as I stumbled toward the front door.
What if the retired couple weren’t overjoyed to see me?
Just as I pushed the doorbell, a panic attack numbed me up and down, and I fell against the side of the wall out of plain view.
I was beside myself with grief as my heart beat faster and faster.
Meanwhile, the interior of the quaint little bungalow remained silent and dark.
Just as I started to head towards the backyard, the front door flew open, and the lawn was bathed in bright light.
“Is that you?” Gramma cried out in a voice that crackled with emotion.
“Yes,” I half-whispered, as my feet just about gave away beneath me.
Within minutes, Gramma was hugging me, and chiding me for my foolishness.
I felt smothered with love!
“You scared the wits out of me. I thought you were a strange little man lurking around the front door up to no good,“ she excitedly explained.
I was hustled inside, fed a nourishing snack, and tucked into a warm cozy bed.
Within minutes, I was fast asleep, without a care in the world.
Then, the following morning at breakfast, the shocking events of the day before unfolded on a portable TV nearby.
The disturbing footage of the motorcade - and the subsequent assassination of President Kennedy - splashed across the tiny screen in all its horrific gory detail.
The image of Jackie Kennedy - in her pink dress and matching pill-box hat splattered with blood - touched me deeply and has remained deeply etched in the inner recesses of my mind to this day.
Talk about the ironies of life!
Years later, in an intriguing twist of fate, I ended up playing a secret service agent in a moment-by-moment reenactment of the Kennedy assassination for an episode of "Twilight Zone" (CBS).
The plot twist was an intriguing one in which a scientist invents uncovers a way to go back in time to prevent the murder of JFK.
Unfortunately, it never occurred to the well-meaning character, that altering a moment in time may end up triggering a series of unexpected irreversible events far worse than ever those previously imagined.
In my own instant case, the action I took ended up sending me head-long down a new path.
On occasion, a call to action, is necessary to effect important change in one’s life.
I also remember the day Jackie "O" married Onassis!
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