While November 22, 1963 was tragic, November 24, 1963 was bizarre.

At eight years old, I was coming home from Sunday School in Leota, Minnesota with my brother and some of our neighbors/friends.  We lived on a little farm about a mile outside of the little town.

When we came walking into the house, the adults were talking about a shooting.  Even us kids knew the shooting had happened two days before on Friday.  The President was dead.

But no, this was different.  My Dad said 'They shot him, just now on television!  They shot the guy that shot the President!'.


And so it was, now so well known, but at the time bizarre, weird...confusing.

A part of the strangest weekend of my childhood.  And it wouldn't end until Monday when we would all watch the black and white television and see the funeral of a President.


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