I was working in downtown Washington, D.C. on November 22,1963, the day John F. Kennedy was killed. A few days later, I stood at Pennsylvania Avenue in bright November sunshine and watched an unforgettable funeral procession. A team of white horses pulled a two wheeled artillery cart carrying JKF's flag-draped casket, followed by a black, saddled but riderless horse. Boots, placed reversed, were in the stirrups. An unhurried, muffled drumbeat accompanied the inexpressible sensation of grief that pervaded the cool air. There was collective anguish for the man, of course, but also grief because it seemed our country would never be the same. What I am about to write is not a political rant. Rather, it concerns the ever-lengthening shadow that continues to be cast to this day by the unthinkable events of November 22, 1963.
I still have a copy of the Life magazine that came out just a few days after the assassination. An article in Life stated that the President had turned toward the School Book Depository, which explained the entrance wound that the Parkland doctors had discovered in his throat. Later this was corrected by the FBI, and we were told the Texas doctors were wrong about the entrance wound, it was an exit wound. By December 3rd a story was "leaked" to the press stating that J. Edgar Hoover and the FBI had already determined that Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone assassin. This information seemed to calm the distraught nation. Almost a year later, the Warren Commission Report was published. It was hailed by the mainstream media with virtually universal praise, although its supporting 26 volumes of evidence (with a supplementary FBI report) would not be published for another two months. I believe I am one of the very few people who ever read the 888 page Warren Commission Report.
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