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ASSASSINATION 11/17/2012 6:37:12 AM
Today is great nephew Jack Burke’s 4th B-day celebration, and we are joining in-laws and outlaws this evening for ice cream and cake at the home of one of our favorite niece and nephew’s. Neither Jack nor his parents, however, was born nearly a half-century ago when the other Jack was killed.
On Friday, November 22, 1963, John (Jack) F. Kennedy, 35th president of the United States, was murdered in Deely Plaza, Dallas, TX. That day, I was the announcer on duty at WROC-TV, the NBC affiliate in Rochester, NY.
Our facility on Humboldt Street (Radio City) was still brand-new, an edifice almost as gaudy and ornate as 30 Rockefeller Plaza itself. The “announce booth” was a dimly lit area, raised and overlooking the main control room. On duty from 11 til 1:30, I was responsible for local half hour station breaks between TV’s soap operas.
At 1:30 I would be free to begin preparing my radio show (2-6 PM), which originated from a studio at the west end of the building.
It was 12:32 when a technician came into the announce booth. “All hell is breaking loose in the newsroom,” he said. “Bells on the AP and UPI machines are ringing non-stop. It’s crazy.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, laconically, with little interest.
“I dunno. Maybe World War Three, or sumpthin. Maybe Jack and Lawford and Marilyn had a threesome last night.”
I glanced at the huge clock above the monitor. It was 12:33. YOUNG DR. MALONE was just beginning. Oh, well, I got up and followed the technician down the hall to the newsroom. In a small alcove were the three wire service teletypes, all three ringing bells furiously and clacking out bulletins.
DL TX 112263 01123AP RTJE DL APDLTX ROTU JP (AP) DL BULLETINNNNN BULLETIN PRES JFKNNDY SHOT BY UNKOWN(S) DLV SPEECH ENTR BY MTRCAD DEELY PZAVP JOHNSON KILLED SEC SER AGNTS ALSO DEAD GVN CONNALLY IN CAR NOT INJURED 1ST LADY HIT MTRCADE TO AREA HOSPPPPPITL LSAHA DLTAXDLDLDL
Holy shit!
All AP and UPI wires were repeating this, in various versions, with updates. The floor was covered with yellow reams of unfolding newsprint from cardboard boxes stashed beneath the teletype machines.
“Save all this stuff for me,” I commanded, well aware what it would be worth in twenty years.
“Yeah, sure,” the techie said. “Want it cut up, in piles?”
I went back to the announce booth where YOUNG DR. MALONE had already been suspended, and the network had brought in Chet Huntley to begin what would be a long weekend of continuous coverage.
“Word has just been received,” Huntley was saying, “that President Kennedy was shot while riding in an open car in downtown Dallas. We understand that Texas governor John Connally was also wounded, but Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy was not hurt. Stay tuned. No further word is available. My colleague, David Brinkley, is in our NBC studios in Washington . . . ”
For the next three days the network had complete control, and at 1:55 that first day a memo was issued by our front office stating that all local radio and TV broadcasting would be suspended. “Name” performers were free to go home; only those assigned to “staff” would remain for the duration, on an “as needed” basis. It was a Friday anyway, and I would be off all weekend after the early and late news and weather, which had already been cancelled.
I left the Broadcast Center at about 4 o’clock our time, after the president was officially pronounced dead by Acting Press Secretary Malcolm Kilduff at 1:33 (CST) and Lyndon Johnson was sworn in aboard Air Force One as our 36th president an hour and five minutes later. I went home, but neither my wife nor kids were there. They were at my wife’s mother’s.
Before leaving the studio, I went back to the announce booth to collect my stack of AP and UPI wire stories, but they were gone, nowhere to be found. Someone had stolen the pile of treasured bulletins. C’est la vie.
Instead, I found Pamela Rivera, the CEO’s secretary, kneeling beside the monitor, her rosary in hand. Callously, I asked, “What’re you doing here?”
“Praying,” she said.
It was cold outside, and I sought refuge in my favorite saloon. It was closed. I moved on to two or three others I frequented; one was actually open, but I was met by only a handful of blank stares. It was as if the world had come to an end, and the only people left were zombies. I had two vodka martinis before the place was shut down.
I wanted to go find a church. Not just any church would do; JFK was a Catholic, and though I was not, I knew there was a Catholic Church — St. Mary’s or St. Someone’s at Washington Square, where Monroe Avenue met Clinton Ave South. It was dark when I got there.
The front door was locked, but I found one near the rear that was open. Inside were fewer people than had been in the saloon I had been to. I do not know if they were parishioners or clergy. But I sat alone for a while in an empty pew.
I thought about the Kennedys and Camelot. Jack and Robert. Jacqueline and Caroline and John-Boy. Ethyl and Rose and Joe. I even thought about Pierre Salinger and Ken O’Donnell. Lyndon Johnson, Lee Harvey Oswald, and Teddy never crossed my mind.
There was a bank of candles in an alcove off to my left. I got up and lighted a candle. There was a “Poor Box” amidst the candles. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, nearly three hundred dollars.
I shrugged, put the money back in my pocket, and walked out of the church.
On the way home, I stopped in Ellison Park, parked in the lower lot near where I sometimes played tennis, got out and went for a walk. It was very cold and dark. I walked near the gurgling creek and stared at the black water. It was Saturday before I got back in the car.
That was forty-nine years ago. I was thirty-two years old. Kennedy would be 95 today.
It has been more than a week since Barack Obama was re-elected. Romney lost because Obama won all but a single battleground state (Florida still has not rung in, though it hardly matters). I wonder if the loser thanked Mr. Obama for the “gifts” he gave to Latinos, blacks, women, young people and many others in return fo their votes. I wonder if Mr. Obama thanked the GOP for their gift to him: Mitt Romney.
