Dallas, Texas is 1,780 miles away
from Weymouth, Massachusetts. Its population in 1963 was just over a million,
at 1.06 million people. Weymouth, a little town tucked beneath Boston on the shoulder
of the mighty Cape Cod, ran in at just over 50,000 residents who called it
home. That was enough for them. It had a connectedness that you could feel –
they used to say if you were born in Weymouth, you got married in Weymouth, and
eventually would grow old in Weymouth. Mary Ellen Pumphrey could look at her
five Irish Catholic siblings, three sisters and two brothers, and know that was
true. This was where family was.
In 1963 she was nine years old, and
fourth grade was in full swing at Immaculate Conception School. It was Friday,
November 22, a day that would reverberate 1,780 miles and beyond, bringing a
bustling small town, a big city, and even uniform-clad school children on the
playground to silence. Mary Ellen did not know this yet.
The sun was up by 6:45 a.m. The sky
was clearing from Thursday’s showers, and it was a bit warmer than the day
before. 60 degrees was a treat for New England in November. The newspaper was
brought to her house on Clinton Road just before she had to leave for school.
The front page of The Boston Globe read, “Escape Probers Blast Charles St.
Jail,” but below that in the middle of the page was a photo of a smiling
Jaqueline Kennedy, her husband, the president, behind her.
John F. Kennedy had a special
connection to the Pumphrey family. He had been married just 10 years prior in
1953 to Jacqueline by Cardinal Richard Cushing, who went on to baptize the
president’s children as well as give a speech at his inauguration in 1961.
Cardinal Cushing also happened to be Mary Ellen’s grandfather’s first cousin.
That is, her first cousin-once-removed.
Her mother would say there was a
slight chance she was related to the Kennedy’s since both families were so
large, as her mother Barbara was one of 12 Cushing siblings, but there was no
way of knowing for sure. Boston, Weymouth in particular, had a connection to
the president. He was born so close, and in a way that made him family as much
as anyone else in the small town.
On this mild day in November, Mary
Ellen continued to school just like any other day. She kissed her mother
goodbye, waved at her 4-month-old brother Mark, and didn’t think twice about
John F. Kennedy.
Around 2 o’clock, she was sitting
in class. The other fourth graders around her, all in matching uniform, all
tried their hardest to pay attention to the nun in front of them giving them
the lesson. Schools were relatively noisy usually, but there was something
about the morning even that was a little more quiet than usual.
The intercom came on. “Students,
teacher, the president has been shot in the head.” It clicked off. That was the
last sound in the building for the next 10 minutes.
Mary Ellen did not know silence
until this moment. Nobody in the school moved. Maybe out of shock, maybe out of
fear, but above all she could feel the sadness welling in Immaculate
Conception. It continued to swell, until it engulfed an entire nation with it.
Immaculate Conception, Weymouth, the United States— all changed forever.
Within the next hour, Mary Ellen
was back on the bus ride home. Even that was silent. Every child on the bus
wore a look of disbelief, their brows furrowed with worry. The president had
been shot. That was all she knew.
When she got home, Mary Ellen came
in as quietly as she could. She saw her mother. “What’s going on?” She asked.
Barbara hugged her oldest daughter.
Walter Cronkite’s voice on the
television broke the silence. “From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently
official, President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. Central Standard Time, 2 o’clock
Eastern Standard Time, some 38 minutes ago. Vice President Johnson has left the
hospital in Dallas, but we do not know to where he as preceded. Presumably, he
will be taking the Oath of Office shortly and become the 36th
president of the United States.”
November 25th, three
days later, and almost every school in the country was cancelled. Mary Ellen
sat with her parents and siblings, those of whom were old enough to pay
attention, as four out of five were under four, to watch her president’s
funeral. Cardinal Cushing was there, of course. The somber music was the only
sound a the country of sadness embarking on a violent time in history. Mary
Ellen could remember his being elected when she was in the first grade just
learning to read; “K” was always for Kennedy. There would now be new
first-graders next fall who would be learning “J” for Johnson, but it would not
be the same. Nothing would be the same, and even in small towns like Weymouth,
1,780 miles from where the president was killed, things never felt the same.
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