I am a child of the sixties. I have memories.
I was getting on the school bus, when I was told President Kennedy had been shot. I was climbing those three, tall steps, covered with black, rubber matt, when Miss Brubaker, the driver, was telling us about it. I had the awareness that this was news of consequence. I watched her from my green, vinyl seat, trying to comprehend the meaning of it all. Everything looked the same; the green grass, the outdoor basketball park, the low, white buildings that were our classrooms. On such a dark day the sun was shining bright.
I was told by my teacher, that I must watch the funeral. It was history. Continue reading No Control