Reflections on Historical Events
The Cuban Missile Crisis - 1962
Dear Laura,
When I was ten years old, in the fourth grade, my father had a bomb shelter built in our backyard. At the time, I thought it might be something exciting—almost like an underground playroom. Inside, it was painted white and lined with four simple cots. Shelves held canned food and supplies, carefully arranged as if we might need them at any moment. I even invited friends over, and we spent the night in it once or twice, trying to turn something frightening into an adventure.
From above, the shelter looked like a square concrete slab, almost like a patio, though we never used it that way. A silver air vent pipe stuck up from the top, a quiet reminder that this was no ordinary space—it was built for survival.
Not long after it was finished, we were jolted awake one night by a loud, startling alarm. My father told us it was a drill. He wanted to see how quickly we could get into the shelter. At the time, the fear was very real. We were told that the Russians might drop a nuclear bomb, and families across the country were preparing in their own ways.
At school, we practiced “duck and cover” drills. We would line up in the hallways, crouch down, and cover our heads, as if that might somehow protect us from the unimaginable. For a ten-year-old, it was confusing and terrifying. That year, I had nightmares about atomic bombs—about bright flashes and everything disappearing in an instant. Looking back, I suppose your grandfather might be called a “survivalist” today. He simply wanted to keep his family safe.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand what was happening in the world. It wasn’t until years later that I realized my father had built that shelter during the same year as one of the most dangerous moments in modern history—the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962.
The Cuban Missile Crisis was a tense, thirteen-day confrontation in October 1962 between the United States and the Soviet Union. It brought the world to the brink of nuclear war. The crisis began when American reconnaissance planes discovered that the Soviet Union was building nuclear missile sites in Cuba, just 90 miles from the coast of Florida. These missiles had the potential to strike major U.S. cities within minutes.
To understand how this happened, it helps to know a little about the times. The United States and the Soviet Union were locked in what was called the Cold War—a long period of political tension and rivalry between two very different systems of government. After Fidel Castro led a communist revolution in Cuba in 1959, the United States grew concerned about having a Soviet ally so close to home.
In 1961, the United States supported an unsuccessful attempt to overthrow Castro, known as the Bay of Pigs invasion. This failure increased tensions even further. Meanwhile, the United States had placed its own nuclear missiles in countries close to the Soviet Union, including Turkey. In response, Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev secretly agreed to place missiles in Cuba, both to protect Castro and to balance the strategic threat.
The crisis unfolded quickly:
In October 1962, U.S. spy planes photographed missile sites under construction in Cuba.
President John F. Kennedy was informed and began meeting with his closest advisors to decide what to do.
On October 22, Kennedy addressed the nation, revealing the presence of the missiles and announcing a naval “quarantine” to stop further shipments.
For several days, the world watched anxiously as Soviet ships approached the blockade line.
At one point, a U.S. reconnaissance plane was shot down over Cuba, and it seemed possible that war might begin at any moment.
Behind the scenes, however, careful communication was taking place. Messages were exchanged between Kennedy and Khrushchev—some public, some secret. Finally, on October 28, an agreement was reached. The Soviet Union would remove its missiles from Cuba, and the United States would promise not to invade the island. Quietly, the U.S. also agreed to remove its missiles from Turkey.
The crisis ended without war, but it left a lasting impression on the world. It led to the creation of a direct communication line between Washington and Moscow—the “hotline”—so leaders could speak quickly in times of danger. It also encouraged efforts to limit nuclear weapons, including a treaty banning certain types of nuclear tests the following year.
For those of us who lived through that time, even as children, the fear was unforgettable. The Cuban Missile Crisis showed just how close humanity came to catastrophe, and how important it is for leaders to act with patience, wisdom, and restraint.
When I think back to that small shelter in our backyard, I remember both the innocence of childhood and the shadow of a very real danger. It is a reminder that history is not just something we read about—it is something people live through, often without fully understanding it at the time.
Love,
Mother
John Glenn - 1962
Dear Laura,
Let me tell you about one of my very first memories of a truly historic event—something that captured my imagination in a way I had never experienced before.
In 1962, I was ten years old, and the whole country seemed to be buzzing with excitement. The news was filled with stories about an upcoming space mission—an American astronaut named John Glenn was going to orbit the Earth. That idea felt almost unbelievable at the time. Space still seemed mysterious and far away, and the thought of a person circling the planet like the moon was thrilling to me.
I became completely fascinated. I would carefully cut out articles from the Fort Worth Star-Telegram and paste them into a notebook, creating my own little scrapbook of the mission. I followed every detail I could find, both before and after the launch. It was my way of feeling connected to something much bigger than myself.
On the day of the launch, our fourth-grade class gathered around a television at school to watch. That alone was special—televisions were not used in classrooms very often back then. We sat quietly, watching history unfold in real time. When the rocket lifted off, I was absolutely mesmerized. I didn’t fully understand all the science, but I knew I was witnessing something important.
On February 20, 1962, John Glenn became the first American to orbit the Earth. His spacecraft, Friendship 7, carried him safely around the planet three times in just under five hours. The mission, called Mercury-Atlas 6, was a major milestone in the space race between the United States and the Soviet Union. At that time, the Soviets had already achieved several “firsts” in space, including sending the first human, Yuri Gagarin, into orbit the year before. Glenn’s successful flight helped restore confidence in America’s space program and showed that we, too, could meet the challenge.
To the country, John Glenn became a hero overnight. But what I remember most is how proud and hopeful everyone seemed. It felt like anything was possible—that science, courage, and determination could take us beyond the limits we once believed were fixed.
Many years later, I had the chance to visit the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C., where I saw his capsule, Friendship 7, in person. I was surprised at how small it was—truly no bigger than a compact car, maybe even smaller than a Volkswagen. It was hard to imagine someone spending nearly five hours inside such a tiny space, orbiting high above the Earth.
Learning more about John Glenn over the years only deepened my admiration. Before becoming an astronaut, he was a Marine Corps pilot and one of NASA’s original “Mercury Seven,” chosen in 1959. Even after his historic flight, he continued to serve his country, later becoming a United States Senator. Amazingly, he returned to space in 1998 at the age of 77, becoming the oldest person ever to fly in space.
Looking back, I can see that this moment in 1962 sparked something lasting in me. It was the beginning of my lifelong interest in space and exploration. More than that, it taught me how powerful curiosity can be—how a single event can open your eyes to a whole new world of ideas and possibilities.
I wanted to share this memory with you because it reminds me that history isn’t just something we read about—it’s something we live through, often without realizing it at the time. And sometimes, those moments stay with us forever.
Love,
Mother
Moon Landing - 1969
Dear Laura,
When I was seventeen years old—a junior at Richland High School, attending Gene Prater Beauty School at night, and living with my family on Laura Street—I remember feeling absolutely captivated by the idea of going to the Moon. It seemed almost unbelievable, like something out of a science fiction story, yet it was happening right before our eyes.
That summer of 1969 was an especially exciting time across our country. America was deeply invested in its space program, and there was a shared sense of anticipation that connected people from all walks of life. On July 20, 1969, families everywhere gathered around their televisions, including ours, to witness something no human being had ever seen before. We watched in awe as the mission called Apollo 11 brought astronauts closer and closer to the Moon.
Apollo 11 had launched just days earlier, on July 16, from Kennedy Space Center in Florida. On board were three brave astronauts: Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Michael Collins. Their mission was the fulfillment of a bold promise made years before—to land a man on the Moon and bring him safely back to Earth before the decade was over.
When the Lunar Module, named Eagle, separated from the Command Module and began its descent, the tension was almost unbearable. Then came the words that still echo through history: “The Eagle has landed.” The module touched down in a place called the Sea of Tranquility, a name that seemed perfectly suited to such a peaceful yet monumental moment.
Several hours later, in the quiet early hours of July 21, we watched as Neil Armstrong descended the ladder and became the first human to set foot on the Moon. His words—“That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind”—gave voice to what we were all feeling. Soon after, Buzz Aldrin joined him, and together they explored that distant surface, collecting samples and conducting experiments while the whole world watched.
They spent only a short time walking on the Moon—about two and a half hours—but what they accomplished changed history forever. After about a day on the lunar surface, they returned to the Lunar Module, lifted off, and rejoined Michael Collins, who had been faithfully orbiting above them. A few days later, on July 24, they safely splashed down in the Pacific Ocean, completing their incredible journey.
What I remember most, though, is not just the achievement itself, but the feeling that came with it. There was a sense of unity and pride that is hard to describe today. For a little while, it felt like the whole country—and even the whole world—was sharing the same moment of wonder and hope.
We felt that pride especially strongly as Texans, knowing that NASA’s Mission Control was in Houston. It made the accomplishment feel closer to home, as if we were somehow part of it too. It reminded us that ordinary people, working together with determination and imagination, could achieve extraordinary things.
Looking back now, I realize that the Moon landing was more than a scientific success—it was a reminder of what is possible when people dare to dream big and work together to make those dreams come true. I hope you will always carry that spirit with you, no matter where life takes you.
Love,
Mother
Letter About the 1976 Bicentennial
Dear Laura,
The year 1976 marked our country’s 200th birthday—the Bicentennial—and it felt as though the whole nation was wrapped in celebration. There were reminders everywhere: flags flying proudly from front porches, red, white, and blue decorations filling shop windows, and a shared sense of excitement in the air. People weren’t just marking a date; they were honoring an idea—two centuries of striving, growing, and becoming.
What I remember most is the simple joy of it all. There were parades with marching bands playing familiar songs, children waving small flags with great enthusiasm, and families gathering in parks with picnic baskets and folding chairs. It felt wholesome and hopeful. Moments like that made me realize that history isn’t just something tucked away in books—it’s something we live through, one ordinary day at a time, often without even knowing how meaningful it will seem later.
Your father and I were living in our house on Lazy Lane then, building our life together in those early years. We didn’t yet have the swimming pool that would later become such a centerpiece of our summers, so we often went to my parents’ house to swim. Those visits were filled with laughter, the smell of sunscreen and barbecue, and the easy comfort of being surrounded by family.
I especially remember watching the Fourth of July celebration on television that year. One scene has stayed with me all these years: a gathering of boats surrounding the Statue of Liberty, spraying great arcs of water into the air. It was breathtaking—almost magical—and it stirred something deep inside me, a sense of pride and wonder. Even from our living room, it felt like we were part of something much bigger.
That evening, like many others that summer, ended with fireworks some simple backyard ones that felt special. There’s something timeless about standing under a warm summer sky, watching bursts of light fade into darkness, surrounded by people you love.
Perhaps someday, when you see fireworks lighting up the sky, you’ll feel a small connection to that summer of 1976—a time when people paused to celebrate 200 years of history and dared to imagine the next 200.
And now, here we are in 2026, marking the 250th anniversary of our country. It feels meaningful to look back and forward at the same time. In our home, we have a small gold bell on display, painted with a flag and inscribed “250th, 1776–2026.” It’s a simple keepsake, but it carries a quiet reminder of how time passes, how traditions continue, and how each generation adds its own chapter.
As I write this to you, I’m struck by how these moments—both large and small—become part of the story we pass on.
Love,
Mother
"Independence Forever!"
Sesquicentennial, Bicentennial, and Semiquincentennial
July 4, 2026
Dear Laura,
Today is the Fourth of July, 2026-Happy 250th Birthday, America!
This historic anniversary is called the United States Semiquincentennial, celebrating 250 years since the Declaration of Independence was adopted on July 4, 1776, in Philadelphia. It is amazing to think that our nation has reached this remarkable milestone. As we celebrate today, I cannot help but think about the generations of our family who have lived through other important anniversaries of our country's birthday.
If my parents were still living, they would both be celebrating their 100th birthdays this year. Your grandmother, June Lee French Tyler, was born on February 13, 1926, and your grandfather, Willard Davis Tyler, was born on April 10, 1926, in Newton, Iowa.
The year they were born was also the Sesquicentennial, the celebration of America's 150th birthday. On July 4, 1926, Philadelphia hosted a grand celebration marking 150 years since the signing of the Declaration of Independence. President Calvin Coolidge, our nation's 30th president, participated in the festivities. I always think it is special that your grandparents began their lives during such an important year in American history.
Fifty years later came another milestone-the Bicentennial in 1976. That celebration is one I remember vividly because I was there to enjoy it.
I was twenty-three years old, having just graduated from college. Your dad, Sam, was thirty. We celebrated our fifth anniversary that year and were living in our very first home on Lazy Lane, just behind my parents' house on Laura Street. I was still working at Little Tyke Day Care and would begin my teaching career that September. Your dad was teaching in the Fort Worth Independent School District at McLean Middle School.
We had not yet bought our boat or built the swimming pool that would later become such a gathering place for our family. On that Fourth of July, we celebrated by swimming at your grandparents' house, enjoying hamburgers, homemade ice cream, and visiting with family.
What I remember most was on television.
Like millions of Americans, we gathered around our television to watch the national celebration. President Ford presided over various Bicentennial events, including a large international fleet parade of tall-masted ships in New York City and elaborate fireworks displays in major cities.
I was mesmerized by the magnificent fleet of tall-masted sailing ships surrounding the Statue of Liberty. Fireboats sprayed enormous arches of water into the sky. It seemed as though the entire world had come together to celebrate America's 200th birthday. Even fifty years later, that picture remains clear in my memory.
Now another fifty years have passed, and here we are celebrating America's 250th Birthday. It hardly seems possible.
The Semiquincentennial has brought celebrations across the country, with communities large and small honoring the nation's history through fireworks, concerts, parades, educational programs, historical exhibits, and patriotic gatherings. The year has also featured special events connected with the America250 celebration, reminding Americans of our shared history and looking ahead to the future.
Another exciting part of this summer has been the 2026 FIFA World Cup. Several years ago, we first heard that Arlington's AT&T Stadium where the Dallas Cowboy play would host the World Cup matches. At first, we thought it would simply be a soccer championship, but we later learned that it is one of the largest sporting events in the entire world, with matches played throughout the United States, Canada, and Mexico.
Watching the tournament has been exciting. Every day the news has featured stories about visitors from around the world experiencing America. Many have commented on how friendly Americans are, how beautiful our country is, how much they enjoy our food-and, especially during a Texas summer, how grateful they are for air conditioning! It has been wonderful to see people from so many nations enjoying our country during this historic anniversary year.
Our own family found special ways to celebrate.
The days leading up to the Fourth of July were filled with friendship, family, and countless reminders of how blessed we are to live in America. Everywhere we went, there was a spirit of celebration and patriotism that made this Independence Day especially meaningful.
The festivities began when Sam and I drove my white convertible Mustang to a parking lot along Highway 26 to watch the North Richland Hills drone show and fireworks presented at the Birdville ISD Plaza. Earlier in the evening, families had gathered to enjoy games, bounce houses, booths, and food trucks, creating a wonderful community atmosphere. As darkness fell, the drones illuminated the night sky with breathtaking patriotic images, including George Washington's face, a rocket, the moon, the Earth, and a soaring eagle. The spectacular fireworks that followed illuminated the sky with brilliant colors. It was beautiful, inspiring, and filled us with patriotic pride.
That same spirit continued into my Stars and Stripes luncheon with my dear friends Penny, Joyce, and Alice. Since Sam was enjoying his regular golf day, I invited the ladies to celebrate together. We all dressed in red, white, and blue, and my patriotic decorations created the perfect setting for a colonial-inspired menu of beef stew, George Washington Salad, cornbread, Bing cherries, and apple dumplings. We toasted with George Washington's Bounce-apple cider with cherries-and remembered John Adams' famous words, spoken just days before his death: "Independence forever!" It still amazes me that both John Adams and Thomas Jefferson died on July 4, 1826, the fiftieth anniversary of the adoption of the Declaration of Independence. That remarkable coincidence has always seemed almost providential.
As often happens when good friends gather, our conversation drifted from history to cherished childhood memories. We reminisced about how our families celebrated the Fourth of July when we were young. I shared how our celebrations always revolved around water and fireworks. My parents welcomed neighbors into our backyard, where Daddy grilled the most delicious barbecue chicken while Mother prepared wonderful side dishes like corn on the cob and potato salad.
Those were the days before cities hosted elaborate fireworks displays, so my father and his friends bought fireworks themselves. I can still picture us children splashing in the swimming pool while the adults lit fireworks overhead. We loved holding sparklers, though I also remembered the frightening year a neighbor's Roman candle exploded in his hand.
The following summer we celebrated at the lake, we enjoyed water skiing and that evening watching fireworks bursting from several points around the shoreline while in our ski boat. Those Fourth of July celebrations remain some of my happiest childhood memories.
After our storytelling, my friends and I spent the afternoon playing card games and Jeff Foxworthy's Relative Insanity, and we laughed heartily.
The week also included a wonderful family outing when your father and I picked you up to see the movie, Young Washington. We thoroughly enjoyed it and would recommend it to anyone interested in American history. One scene especially impressed me because it portrayed George Washington surviving dangers that many believed should have taken his life. I had previously read accounts suggesting that Washington's remarkable survival on the battlefield was due to Divine Protection, and the movie reflected the belief held by some Native American warriors that he was protected by a higher power. Seeing that portrayed on screen made history come alive in a very meaningful way. Afterward, the three of us enjoyed dinner together at Carrabba's, adding another treasured family memory to our collection.
On the Fourth of July itself, Sam and I joined the celebration at Harley-Davidson in Bedford. We enjoyed listening to the live band, eating hot dogs and hamburgers, and watching the mechanical bull riders, both young and old, an armadillo race, and even a hot dog eating contest.
Later that afternoon, a refreshing swim in the pool was especially welcome on the beautiful 100-degree day. I noticed that Washington, D.C., was experiencing the same scorching temperatures, somehow making me feel even more connected to our nation's capital on Independence Day.
The celebration continued into the evening when our dear friends Penny and Gary came over. We had a wonderful time playing Spades before settling in to watch the New York fireworks on television, followed by President Donald J. Trump's remarks and even more spectacular fireworks displays. It was an evening filled with laughter, gratitude, patriotism, and appreciation for the many freedoms we enjoy.
Looking back over the week, I realize it wasn't simply a series of holiday activities. It was a celebration of faith, friendship, family, history, and country. Each gathering, each shared meal, each conversation, and each fireworks display reminded me how precious these traditions are and how thankful I am for the people with whom I share them. It was truly a memorable Independence Day.
One thing that always makes me smile during patriotic holidays is looking around our home. Over the years, your dad and I have filled it with reminders of our love for America and the freedoms we enjoy.
Perhaps the centerpiece of our patriotic decorations is the large reproduction of Jean Leon Gerome Ferris's painting, The Writing of the Declaration of Independence displayed on an artist's easel in our living room. This beautiful work of art depicts Thomas Jefferson with Benjamin Franklin and John Adams offering counsel and support. It captures a quieter but deeply significant moment in history-the careful crafting of words that would declare a new nation's independence. Unlike paintings that show dramatic scenes of signing or presentation, this one reminds us that freedom often begins in thoughtful reflection, debate, and the courage to put ideas into writing that can change the world.
I often find myself pausing to look at it and imagining Jefferson carefully choosing each word, knowing the weight they would carry for generations to come. The Declaration's promise that all men are created equal and endowed with unalienable rights was not written lightly. It was written with full awareness of the risks involved-risking "our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor." Those men understood that their signatures and their words could cost them everything, yet they believed liberty was worth the sacrifice. Their faith, determination, and courage gave birth to the nation we celebrate today.
Throughout our home are other reminders of America's story-flags, patriotic decorations, Uncle Sams, and keepsakes collected over many years. They are more than holiday decorations. They are daily reminders that the freedoms we enjoy were purchased by the courage and sacrifices of generations who came before us.
As I think about the Sesquicentennial of your grandparents' birth year, the Bicentennial of my young adulthood, and today's Semiquincentennial, I realize how blessed I have been to witness three great chapters in America's story. Every generation receives the precious gift of liberty, enjoys it for a season, and then passes it on to those who follow.
History often seems like a collection of dates in a textbook. Yet every generation lives through history without realizing that one day its ordinary moments will become part of the historical record. Someday, others may read this letter in Birdsong and discover not only how America celebrated her 250th birthday, but how one family experienced it together. That is how history is preserved - one memory at a time.
My hope is that long after I am gone, our nation will continue celebrating Independence Day with gratitude for those who came before us and hope for those yet to come.
May America always remain one nation under God, and may her people never forget the courage, faith, and sacrifice upon which she was founded.
Independence Forever!
Love,
Mother
President John F. Kennedy's Assassination
November 22, 1963
Dear Laura,
When I was 11 years old, I was in the fifth grade. My teacher at Glenview Elementary School was gray-haired Mrs. Eldridge. Years later, Glenview Elementary was renamed Binion Elementary, after our principal.
When I think back to being 11, I remember a much simpler world. After school, I would often play in our backyard. Sometimes Debbie, my across-the-street neighbor, would come over. We would do cartwheels and splits, climb on the laundry poles, and pretend we were circus performers. At that age, a backyard could become almost anything we imagined.
Donna, another girl who lived across the street, was also my age. The three of us had a carpool to school. One week my mother would drive us to school and pick us up. The next week Donna's mother would take her turn, and Debbie's mother, Kathy, also drove us. We knew the routine well.
Donna was the first of us to have her ears pierced. I remember sitting in the backseat and looking at her ears. They were red and swollen, and she had developed an infection from having them pierced. I immediately made up my mind that I would never pierce my ears!
That decision has lasted a lifetime. I still wear clip-on earrings. It seems that almost every girl has pierced ears-including you! But one day after school, something happened that I remember much more vividly than pierced ears or backyard circus acts.
I was the first of the three girls to reach the carpool that afternoon. Debbie's mother, Kathy, was driving. I opened the car door, slid into the backseat, and cheerfully said, "Hi, Kathy!" Kathy didn't answer.
Maybe she hadn't heard me. So, I said it again. "Hi, Kathy." Still no answer. Then I heard the radio. "President Kennedy has been assassinated." I suddenly understood why Kathy hadn't answered me. She wanted me to hear the news.
I was shocked. President John F. Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. At home, I found my mother sitting in a chair watching television. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. That is the only time in my entire life that I saw my mother cry. I don't remember anyone having to explain to me what the death of the president meant. Even though I was only 11, I understood that something terrible had happened to our country.
It was Friday, November 22, 1963.
President Kennedy, the 35th president of the United States, had come to Texas on a political trip. That morning he and First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy had been in Fort Worth, where crowds gathered to see them. The presidential motorcade then traveled to Dallas. Kennedy, Mrs. Kennedy, Texas Governor John Connally, and Mrs. Connally were riding together in the presidential limousine.
As the motorcade traveled through Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas, shots were fired. President Kennedy was fatally wounded. Governor Connally was also seriously wounded but survived. The presidential limousine rushed to Parkland Memorial Hospital. Shortly afterward, the news that everyone feared was announced: President Kennedy was dead. Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson was sworn in as the 36th president aboard Air Force One at Love Field in Dallas that afternoon.
But the shocking events did not end with the president's death.
Lee Harvey Oswald, an employee at the Texas School Book Depository, was arrested that afternoon and charged in connection with the killings of President Kennedy and Dallas police officer J. D. Tippit. Two days later, while Oswald was being transferred through the basement of Dallas police headquarters, he was shot by Jack Ruby, a Dallas nightclub owner. Oswald died shortly afterward.
I remember sitting on the floor, cross-legged, watching the television when Lee Harvey Oswald was killed. It was an extraordinary thing for an 11-year-old to see happening on live television. My immediate thought was, "It is a conspiracy."
The official investigation that followed was enormous. President Lyndon Johnson appointed the President's Commission on the Assassination of President Kennedy, commonly called the Warren Commission. After a lengthy investigation, the Commission concluded in 1964 that Lee Harvey Oswald was responsible for the assassination and found no evidence that he had been part of a conspiracy.
But the questions did not disappear. Other investigations and generations of historians have continued to examine the evidence, and the possibility of a conspiracy has remained a subject of debate. Even as a child, watching Oswald being killed on live television, I felt that there had to be more to the story.
My parents were Republicans and had not voted for John F. Kennedy, but he was our president.
I don't remember ever hearing my parents say anything negative about him. We did think his Boston accent was funny, and we even had a comedy record in which a comedian imitated President Kennedy. My brother David wanted to play the record after Kennedy was killed, but my parents explained that we would not listen to that record again.
We respected him. We also believed that he was a good man, and there were things he said that made a lasting impression on us. In his 1961 Inaugural Address, President Kennedy said: "My fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you-ask what you can do for your country."
Those words were powerful, especially to children growing up in that era. They made being an American sound like something that carried responsibility-not just rights and privileges, but a responsibility to contribute.
He also challenged the nation with his vision of sending Americans to the moon:
"We choose to go to the Moon. We choose to go to the Moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard."
I was 11 years old when he was killed. I was too young to understand everything about politics or the Cold War or the tremendous responsibilities of the presidency. But I understood something much simpler:
Our president had been killed, and our country was grieving.
Over the years, I have heard other people tell their memories of that day, and their stories have made November 22, 1963 even more real to me.
Years ago, your Aunt Susan, your father's brother's wife, told us that she was in third grade when President Kennedy came to Fort Worth. Her class walked out to the street so the children could see the presidential motorcade. She saw President Kennedy that morning-only hours before he was assassinated in Dallas.
Think about that.
A child in Fort Worth could stand along the street and see the President of the United States drive past. There were no cell phones, no internet, and no instant video clips to replay. People simply stood along the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of the president.
Susan did exactly that. She saw him alive. Later that same day, he was gone.
Your father's longtime friend from high school, Johnny, also has a connection to that day through his wife, Brenda. Brenda had just been hired to work at Montgomery Ward. Louise, who later became her mother-in-law, had hired her. That morning, before Brenda reported for her new job that afternoon, she was among the people in Fort Worth who watched the presidential motorcade. Brenda told us that as President Kennedy's car passed by, her exact thought was: "He is so close. Somebody could shoot him." That is one of those statements that becomes more haunting with time. She was watching the president in person, surrounded by a crowd of ordinary Texans, and had no idea that only a few hours later her thought would seem chillingly prophetic.
My dear friend Linda, whom I have known since we met in fourth-grade Sunday School, has another memory from that day. Linda was in fifth grade, although she attended a different elementary school than I did. After the assassination, the teachers were told what had happened and were instructed not to tell the students. But children have a way of finding things out.
While the students were outside on the playground, word began to spread. Some children had heard that the president had been shot. They didn't know how many had been shot; how many had been killed. No one seemed to know exactly what had happened. The children didn't even know who was in charge of the government.
One student said that if the president had died, the American flag would be lowered. The children turned and looked at the flag. At first, it was still flying at full mast. Then they watched as the flag was lowered.
Can you imagine what that must have felt like to those children?
They had heard rumors, but suddenly they had a visual sign that something terrible had really happened.
Linda usually walked home from school. That day, she ran. She wanted to get home as quickly as possible to find out what had happened.
Your father remembers that day, too.
He had graduated from Haltom High School earlier that year and was living at home while attending North Texas State University. That afternoon, he and his friend Bobby were together in the car, going to a flower shop to pick up Homecoming mums for the Haltom High School Homecoming football game that night. Then they heard the news on the car radio. President Kennedy had been shot. The Homecoming football game was canceled that night.
All over the country, ordinary plans suddenly seemed unimportant. Children went home from school. Families gathered around their televisions. Businesses interrupted their regular programming. People who had been shopping, working, driving, or preparing for a Friday night football game stopped what they were doing and listened for the latest news. America was experiencing the death of a president together.
That is one of the things I remember most about November 22, 1963. We were all watching the same television coverage and listening to the same news reports. There were only a few television channels, and there was no internet or social media. When something happened, families gathered around the television and experienced it together.
The assassination of President John F. Kennedy was the most significant historical event of my young life. I was only 11 years old, but I knew that I was witnessing something I would remember for the rest of my life. And I was right.
In 1996, when you were 11 years old, I wrote a "Dear Laura" letter telling you about my memories of the Kennedy assassination. Now, many years later, Courtney, our North Richland Hills Library Assistant Director, asked me to write about historical events for the Birdsong historical section of the North Richland Hills website from my perspective. So, I decided to expand that old letter.
Perhaps that is one of the wonderful things about history. History is not only dates, names, wars, presidents, and events printed in textbooks. History is also a little girl sitting cross-legged on the floor watching television. It is a mother crying in her chair. It is three girls riding home from school in a carpool. It is a child watching a flag being lowered. It is a new employee seeing a presidential motorcade before going to her first day at work. It is two young men hearing the news on a car radio while picking up Homecoming mums. And it is an entire nation stopping to mourn.
November 22, 1963, is a sad day in American history. I was 11 years old. But I remember.
Love,
Mother