![]() ![]() ![]() By then I was somewhat inured to the various revelations of Jack Kennedy’s private life. In 1997 I read with great interest Seymour Hersh’s book “The Dark Side of Camelot.” It was there, for first time, I read about Mary Meyer’s murder. ![]() Over the years, the protracted intimate exposé of the man, his times and his unresolved death, would fascinate Americans of all ages, but none more so than those of us alive and sentient enough to recall with clarity the details of where we were the day he died. So began the nation’s lifelong interest in the vagaries and intricacies behind the killing a president. I knew before I climbed the front porch that our youthful President was dead. Approaching the front lawn of our small farm, I saw my mother holding the front door half open with her head buried in the crook of her elbow sobbing uncontrollably. Somehow, by the time we debarked at my rural stop, word had reached us that the President had been shot. Boarding the school buses already idling on the roundabout parking drive all students were taken home. ![]() At midday Friday, November 22, 1963, my junior high school administration announced the suddenly and immediate closure of the school day – without explanation. ![]()
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