Though my memories of the assassination of John F. Kennedy are vivid and have marked me, and I expect never to forget the terrible sound of those muffled drums in the funeral procession, I do not feel compelled to share the mundane circumstances of a sixth-grader receiving the news that day.
Neither do I feel any need to pay attention to the multitude of crack-brained conspiracy theories that have proliferated over the past half-century and canceled one another out. The Warren Commission report, imperfect as it is, and Lee Harvey Oswald as the assassin will do for me.*
Though I am grateful that President Kennedy heeded the advice of people like Adlai Stevenson rather than the Joints Chiefs and war hawks during the missile crisis, and also that he made a late turn to push for civil rights, I am not having any truck with Camelot nostalgia. He was not Arthur.
And finally, I take a moment to honor the memories of Aldous Huxley, novelist, and Clive Staples Lewis, literary historian and Christian apologist, whose coincidental deaths on November 22, 1963, were obscured by the dreadful events in Dallas.
*If you disagree, that is your right, but please, not here.
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