E.B. White, President Kennedy and Me

A Page from My Memoirs-

    As I was going through boxes in the attic, I came across my beloved copy of Charlotte’s Web, written by E. B. White.  I had forgotten I had tucked the book away with other mementos from my grade school years.  Inside the front cover I had carefully written my name in cursive, followed by the date, November 22, 1963. 

    I was in the third grade that year, and our teacher, Mrs. Hudson, had been reading a chapter a day from Charlotte’s Web after recess.  I loved the story of Wilbur and Charlotte. I remember how much I wanted the book for my very own, to take home and savor during the twilight hours before going to sleep.  My plan was to read not just a chapter a day, like Mrs. Hudson did, but to rush ahead and find out what was going to happen to Wilbur.  The suspense was making me crazy. 

   I purchased the paperback version of Charlotte’s Web for a quarter at the book store cubby in the back of the tiny school library.   Mrs. Hadcock, the librarian wrapped the precious book in brown paper and I returned to my classroom, tucking my gift to myself away in my desk.  Then I lined up dutifully with my classmates for recess. 

   It was a golden autumn day with brilliant sunlight slanting through the blue sky, the colored leaves crisp and crunchy under our feet as we played tag under the oaks and maples.  I remember there was a chill to the air and a beauty to the light that would have taken my breath away if I had stood still long enough to notice, but who pays attention to such things when they're eight years old?  It was more important that Mike Lehne asked me if I wanted to play on the teeter-totters. 

    My two best friends, Gail and Kathy, hopped on the teeter-totter next to us, and we all sang The Beatles' “She Loves You” at the tops of our lungs.  Mrs. Hudson and the other teachers watched us with half-smiles, shaking their heads.  As I was lifted up into the air on the teeter-totter, I remember the rush of cool fall air against my face, the way my skirt puffed out around me, the feeling of being full of happiness.  I was on the teeter-totter with the cutest boy in the class.  My best friends were beside me, and when recess was over there would be another chapter of Charlotte’s Web. 

   We piled into the classroom after recess, hung up our coats, and took our seats.  I reached into my desk to make sure my own copy of Charlotte’s Web, which I had spent half my allowance on, was still there.  I carefully wrote my name and the date on the inside cover.  Mrs. Hudson sat at her desk, her curly brown hair windblown from recess, her sweater slightly askew on her shoulders.  She opened the book and just began to read.  

    For a few moments I was lost in a world of talking animals and a gentle girl named Fern.  I wondered what it would really be like to have a pet pig and vowed never to kill a spider, even if it was huge and ugly. 

   I was brought back to reality when the school secretary came into the room.  Mrs. Wilkinson’s eyes were red, and there was a flowered handkerchief clutched in her hand.  We watched as she beckoned Mrs. Hudson out into the hallway, closing the door carefully behind them.  The boys ribbed each other.  “Aw you’re in trouble now.  You’re gonna have to go see the principal.”  A spit ball flew across the room and landed in Gail’s hair.  Jimmy chanted, “Karen and Mike sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.” 

   “Class!” Mrs. Hudson came back into the room, clapping her hands together just once, her stout sensible shoes clicking on the hard tile, “Please put your chairs on your desks and get your coats. Quickly, quickly now.  Line up here by the door.  We’re having early dismissal.” 

   We all did as we were told, but why were we going home early?  There was no snowstorm, no teachers’ meeting; it wasn’t a holiday.  The school wasn’t on fire.  Was it The Bomb?  Were we going to the basement and sit with our legs crossed and heads down, having only water and Saltines to eat?

    Clutching my copy of Charlotte’s Web to my chest, I retrieved my lunchbox and coat before lining up with my chattering, boisterous classmates.  There was a party feeling in the air.  Again, Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands for silence, and as we turned to look at her, we noticed her face looked funny.  It had gone pale and her eyes were red-rimmed.  “You’re all going home to be with your families,” she said.  Then her eyes filled with tears as she quietly spoke these words, “The president has been shot.” 

   Twenty-four children stood there in stunned silence before the questions came pouring out of us.  “Who would shoot the president?”  “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”  “Did someone get into the White House?”  “Where was he?”  “Where were his bodyguards?”  “Why would anyone want to shoot President Kennedy?” 

    My sister, Dee, and I arrived home to find our mother glued to the black and white television, the laundry left forgotten on the ironing board.  Her crying frightened us, and we became even more scared when she turned the sound low on the TV and told us we needed to pray for our president.  We kneeled on the living room carpet like good girls and prayed for him and Mrs. Kennedy and little John-John and Caroline.  We said Hail Marys and Our Fathers. Mom held her rosary, but the president died anyway. 

   That night, after a solemn supper, our family went to my grandparents’, where we joined the rest of our all-Catholic clan.  Cousins, aunts and uncles had come together to mourn John F. Kennedy.  My grandmother was inconsolable.  It was as if her own son had been shot down that day.  My dad and uncles drank beer and whisky while staring in stoic silence at the television, watching over and over again the horrifying details of that awful afternoon.  Grandpa stared off into space, alternately puffing on his pipe and holding various babies on his knee.  He wasn’t bouncing them or singing silly songs as usual.  I stood in the doorway watching him, willing him to tell just one joke or funny story.

   With Charlotte’s Web in hand, I wandered between the men in the living room and the women in the kitchen. My mother leaned against the counter, presiding over the percolator while the aunts sat with my grandmother at the big table sipping cooling coffee and dabbing their swollen eyes with wads of soggy tissues.   Grandma sat with her apron on, her head in her hands, her rosary twined around her fingers. 

   I ended up in the parlor, where my older cousins sat on the staircase talking softly.  My teenage cousin, Judy slid over so I could sit next to her, and I leaned against her for comfort and protection, from what I didn’t really know.  That full, happy feeling I had felt earlier in the day was completely gone.  She took my book from me and smiled.  “I remember this.  Do you want me to read to you?”  Forgetting I was too old for that, I nodded my head, too sad and confused to speak.  She started from the beginning, and all my cousins stopped talking to listen to Judy tell of farm animals that could talk, a girl named Fern, and a spider called Charlotte.  E. B. White’s words were still there on the page, even though our world had changed forever. 

   I’ve read the story of Charlotte, Wilbur and Fern many times since in my life-- to four daughters, all grown; to grandchildren, nieces and nephews; and all manner of small friends.  Every time I read it, it’s always with a great measure of sadness, for I remember that long ago autumn day when everything felt perfect, warm and wonderful.  All I had to concern myself with was a spider and a pig. 

 

   Then our president was killed in Dallas.