I remember it as a strange, slow motion kind of bifurcated event: as a fourth grader in West Seattle I was among classmates approaching the classroom from recess or after lunch, and the Swedish janitor told us what he had heard on his closet radio, that the president had been shot. (The janitor was a typical tall, gaunt, Swedish immigrant, not too talkative but nonetheless friendly man who reminded me of my mother's Norwegian family.) We in turn told our shocked teacher, who dismissed the message because of the messenger, saying something along the lines of a simple janitor couldn't possibly be correct. It was a while later in the classroom that another teacher entered and confirmed what we'd heard before. We took a break and I remember going to the girl's bathroom, where another girl entered and was so upset that she slammed open the big wooden door and broke its top hinge.

After school I walked home and found mom sitting uncharacteristicly quiet, watching television. It was very similar to when Pope John died earlier that year. It was very unusual for my mother to ever sit still during the day and just do one thing, like watch tv.

SRS