... i was in the seventh-grade in bellevue, nebraska ... it was after lunch, and my "core" (english/history/literature) teacher had just put us to the task of diagraming a few of our english textbook's rather complex sentence examples ... i detested diagraming, thinking then, as i do now, that the whole exercise was the invention of someone who truly hated writing and wanted to instill that value in others ... i wasn't about to let my teacher know this, since my great respect for him was in no small part based upon my dread of the impact his gold service ring could make against the back of my skull ... in the afternoon, once my peanut butter and jelly sandwich had settled nicely into the bottom of my stomach, i would stare out the classroom window, like eddie rickenbacker or chuck yeager searching the clear blue sky above the distant horizon for the tiny speck which would provided me with yet another enemy plane that was soon to join the neat little row painted upon the fuselage of my trusty p-47 thunderbolt ... (yes, there was usually a girl involved, somehow needing rescue from the dastardly hun aviator) ... i would masterfully maneuver my massive pratt & wittney powered fighter, from out of the sun's glare diving upon my surprised opponent ... but, unlike the other more common flyers, it was not then that i would hurl fiery tracers and armor piercing rounds into my foe ... no, such a simple kill was not for one with my areobatic talents ... instead, i would pull alongside the terrified german, allowing him a long look at what was to be the source of his demise ... then, with a flip of a salute, i'd allow him the first move in our little dance of death ... he'd roll, i'd counter ... watching him attempt escape with an immelman, i'd dive to pick up speed, reverse into a chandelle, then control a violent hammerhead that would place me onto his tail ... he'd jinx left, i'd do a scissors, line him up in my sights, and pull the trigger ...
... bam, stars would exploded in my eyes ... was i in a flat spin ... had another german flyer snuck into my blind spot ... what was happening ... was i going down ... was this what it was like to "buy the farm" ... my final thought was a fervent hope that she'd at least notice my effort to save her ...
... back to reality ... neither an explosive 20mm cannon shell, nor the impact of a machine gun bullet, it was just the concussion as my teacher's massive service ring smacked against the side of my skull ... an immediate discharge from the army air corp, drafted by my teacher it was back to the trenches for me ...
... except this day something was different ... as we slaved away the principal came to the classroom door and with a slight movement of his hand summoned our teacher away from his little throne at the front of the room ... the two whispered for a few seconds, subscribed to normal juvinile curiosity all of us peeked trying to learn the latest news ... as he turned and walked back to his desk, it was then that we all knew that something was different ... something had changed ... something was wrong ... our teacher, a man who had survived omaha beach, the battle of the bulge, even, as he'd told us, returning home to a world that "just didn't seem to understand" ... he with premature greying hair still trim on top and slick on the sides, eyes that as children we intuitively understood to leave him be when they flashed a hint of what some of us would later come to learn was "the thousand yard stare" ... there were tears in his eyes as he collapsed into his chair, muttering, "just keep working, the principal's going to make an announcement in a few minutes" ...
... we didn't, continue working, that is ... we whispered, notes were passed back and forth, some of us could see into the hallway where we noticed teachers and staff members in quiet huddles ... the thing i remember above all else is how absolutely still the air became, as if we were on the deck of a sailing ship becalmed in the middle of a endless sea ...
... "this is the principal ... it is with great sadness that i ... the president ... dallas ... shot ... dead ... we're going to release early, walkers can line up " ...
... as i walked west mission avenue's slight upgrade i noticed that cars were parked along the road ... drivers were sitting listening to their radios, and, in many cases, along side of each vehicle was a little gathering of very quiet adults ... some were crying, to varying degrees all appeared stunned ... nobody noticed me as i strolled by, and in the odd stillness i felt as if i were some solitary explorer wandering a landscape devoid of all life ...
... that night, all of us glued to the television, wanting so desperately for the man we trusted, walter cronkite, to inform us it was a mistake, my dad pronounced, "everything's going to be okay, but nothing's ever going to be the same again" ...
... how strange, now living in this future world, to realize that there are two classes of americans, those who will immediately recognize this landscape and those for whom this is simply a rather uninteresting street scene ...
... i also remember pa, who was a marksman, saying, "there was an element of luck, as there always is, but it was a doable shot" ...
... as i stood in this window, sighting down the length of an imaginary 6.5mm carcano rifle, tracking the flow of traffic and quickly working the bolt, i came to the belief that my ol' dad was absolutely correct about the shot ... i don't know if there was a "conspiracy" involved in the murder of john f. kennedy, but i do believe that if one is to form some sort of "alternative" explanation for the events of that day, it cannot be logically based upon the supposed "impossibility" of lee harvey oswald acting alone ... sometimes it's hard to accept that when all is said and done, history is never more than the stories of individuals ...
... just after snapping this picture i was busted because no photography is allowed in the book depository ... i didn't mind, thinking that pa would've done the same thing ... turned out he was right, too, about the world ... things never did go back to the way they were ...
... that night, all of us glued to the television, wanting so desperately for the man we trusted, walter cronkite, to inform us it was a mistake, my dad pronounced, "everything's going to be okay, but nothing's ever going to be the same again" ...
... i also remember pa, who was a marksman, saying, "there was an element of luck, as there always is, but it was a doable shot" ...
... as i stood in this window, sighting down the length of an imaginary 6.5mm carcano rifle, tracking the flow of traffic and quickly working the bolt, i came to the belief that my ol' dad was absolutely correct about the shot ... i don't know if there was a "conspiracy" involved in the murder of john f. kennedy, but i do believe that if one is to form some sort of "alternative" explanation for the events of that day, it cannot be logically based upon the supposed "impossibility" of lee harvey oswald acting alone ... sometimes it's hard to accept that when all is said and done, history is never more than the stories of individuals ...
... just after snapping this picture i was busted because no photography is allowed in the book depository ... i didn't mind, thinking that pa would've done the same thing ... turned out he was right, too, about the world ... things never did go back to the way they were ...
NIKON D200 & OLYMPUS E-PL1