Belsaw
In 1963 we were living in Clifton, a residential section of the City of Cincinnati. Mom and Dad had bought the house of “Mom’s Dreams”, an old English Tudor at 21 Belsaw Place. It was all old oaken beams and plaster board walls, set into the hillside. We didn’t have air conditioning, but a huge fan on the third floor pulled cool air up through the house in the summer.
There was a big open field next door, perfect for a second grader to gather friends and play, and a wood behind to explore that was the shortcut to my friends on the next street over. That house is still there, fifty-eight years later. The little tree we planted in the front yard is full grown now, and there’s a house built in the big field, and I’m sure air conditioning has been installed.
Clifton School
Clifton was a nice walking community. Our church was only a few blocks away on Clifton Avenue. And the school, the ancient Clifton Elementary building, was also within easy walking distance for a second grader. Rain, shine or snow, we walked to school, “uphill, both ways”. It wasn’t really, just an easy walk past the church and the big yards with Osage Orange trees. Those trees produce a “fruit”, the big green “hedge apples”. They were perfect for throwing at each other, or kicking down the sidewalk to school.
Clifton School was so old it there was a large fountain out front, for watering the horses the pulled the streetcars as they made their way down Clifton Avenue towards town. (No, I’m not that old, the horses were long gone even then). The more modern “Annex” was across the street from the old building, and that was “my school” for second and third grade. In fourth grade we would move over into the old building.
Kennedy
I was a President Kennedy fan even as a seven year-old. Mom had a direct connection to the Kennedy’s. She went to boarding school with Kathleen Kennedy, the President’s sister, who became part of the family tragedy when she died in a plane crash in 1948. So Mom was a huge Kennedy supporter, even as a British citizen, and I was wearing a Kennedy button at four years old in the 1960 election.
November 22nd, 1963 was a normal school day in Mrs. Meyer’s second grade class. But sometime after lunch, we became aware that something was up. The teachers kept slipping out to the hallway to talk to each other, and Mrs. Meyers had tears in her eyes when she came back in the room. She didn’t tell us what was going on, but soon the Principal came on the PA and announced that school was ending early, and we were going home.
Rumors flowed as we walked out of the building. I remember someone describing a huge monster that attacked Texas, though I didn’t take much stock in that. But clearly something had happened, and it was bad. They never let us out of school early.
Fighting Words
So I headed back home, up Clifton Avenue, along with the “regular” crew that lived along the way. One boy, a third grader, seemed to know “everything”. As we passed the Osage Orange trees with the hedge apples on the ground, he told us that President Kennedy was shot and dead. I didn’t believe him, and we argued as only a third and a second grader could. His third grade superiority was too much for me – I punched him in the nose. He ran off towards his house.
I was filled with righteous anger – how dare he lie about my hero, President Kennedy. As I walked up the steps to the front door, I was all ready to tell Mom how I defended him. But as I reached the top of the steps, the big wooden door opened. Mom was standing there, tears streaming down her face.
In Black and White
The next few days are a blur. We watched a lot of TV, black and white images of airplanes and crying people. The President’s body and Jackie and the new President Johnson were whisked out of Texas and back to Washington. And then there was the funeral, the lone horse, the boots reversed in the stirrups, behind a plain caisson with a flag covered casket. John-John, the President’s son just a couple of years younger than me, saluted the flag as it went by. And the final resting place in Arlington, the hats of the military laid carefully around a plain white cross.
The punch in the nose was forgotten.
Yesterday, Jenn and I were driving around, moving signs asking folks to look out for a lost dog. We pulled into a driveway to turn around, and the yard was covered with hedge apples. Memory is a funny thing – especially on November 22nd, fifty-eight years after President Kennedy was killed.
