It was one of the rare times I had ever seen my father cry.

We sat at the dinner table that Sunday in November 1963 as the cortege moved from the White House to the Capitol to that unforgettable drum cadence.

Dad excused himself from the table. When he came back, he said he thought we ought to go to Washington the next day for President Kennedy's funeral.

We had been glued to the TV since that Friday afternoon when Kennedy was shot. I was a ninth-grader and the whole school has been in an assembly watching the senior class play. At the conclusion of the play, Principal Lewis Creveling walked to the center of the stage and delivered the news: President Kennedy had been shot and killed in Dallas.

So, Monday morning, we packaged into our old blue Ford station wagon and headed to Washington.

Realizing the city would be badly congested for the funeral, Dad decided we should park outside the city and take a bus to the Capitol building. While on the bus, we heard the line of people passing through the Capitol and past the flag-draped casket had been stopped in preparation for the ceremonies that day. Thousands of people had gone through the line and I guess Mom and Dad hoped we would be able to do that, too.

When we arrived at the Capitol grounds, I began snapping photos with my little Kodak Brownie camera. Military vehicles and men were stationed throughout the grounds.

While we had no hope of going through the Capitol and past the casket, we walked along the restraining ropes used as guides for the people who had earlier gone through the Capitol rotunda where the guarded casket sat to pay their respects.

Then a very strange thing happened. The moment we got to the spot where people had been allowed to walk across the parking lot and up the stairs to the rotunda, a guard dropped the restraining rope and allowed us and a few others to be the final people to pass through the rotunda. As I passed before the casket, I snapped a photo as my camera hung from my neck. (The image shows a corner of the president's casket and part of one of the guards.)

Before we knew it, we were back outside the Capitol building.

We stayed on the grounds and watched as the casket was brought down the steps and placed on the horse-drawn caisson. I think we were all in tears as the Naval Hymn played.

Then another strange thing happened. Among the thousands of people on the Capitol grounds that day, we bumped into two teachers from my high school: Mr. Ashkar and Mr. Mincemoyer. They said they had been in line all night and never got to go through the rotunda. They were amazed at what had happened to us.

Years later, I talked with Mom about that day in Washington. I said I just couldn't understand how we were among those final few allowed to pass by the casket.

Mom said she knew why. She said when we were on the bus and heard the line had been stopped, she prayed we would be able to go through the rotunda. Her prayers, she said, had been answered.

George Taylor

editor

Bethlehem Press