Security at the Kennedy presidential library is tight.
After two hours of scrutinizing documents while sitting down, I stand at a lectern for a standing-break. Less than a minute passes when Mr. Desmondi, the librarian of 36 years, runs over to tell me I must be sitting at the desk with the documents, and I can never have my back to his watchful eye.
When I go to lunch, a security guard must key the elevator for my return to the fourth floor library. Fortunately, each trip to the fourth floor elevator has been with the same security guard whose company I enjoy.
"How's your research going?" he asks.
"Well. There's times when I am reading and I get a big lump in my throat and my eyes get teary."
"I often see people on their way out of the library with tears in their eyes. There's a feeling here."
There is always the pervading tragedy of JFK’s assassination, of his widow, of his young children left without a father.
"So many memories. We're always surrounded by memories."
"Do you remember where you were when you learned President Kennedy had been shot?" I ask.
"I was in the eighth grade. I was in Parochial school. The Superior nun came in to our class and whispered to the nun who was our teacher. They both started crying. Then they sent us home."
While reading Oregon Senator Maurine Neuberger's oral interview, she recalls while campaigning for President Kennedy, when they came upon a group of nuns waiting on the sidewalk of a Catholic Church. They'd learned of Kennedy's schedule and waited in anticipation of his passing. As the future president passed, the nuns waved their arms and cheered.
"Where were you when he was shot?" the security guard asks me.
"I was only three years old, but I think I remember my mother crying."
"Yes, I'm sure she was crying."
~~
After two hours of scrutinizing documents while sitting down, I stand at a lectern for a standing-break. Less than a minute passes when Mr. Desmondi, the librarian of 36 years, runs over to tell me I must be sitting at the desk with the documents, and I can never have my back to his watchful eye.
When I go to lunch, a security guard must key the elevator for my return to the fourth floor library. Fortunately, each trip to the fourth floor elevator has been with the same security guard whose company I enjoy.
"How's your research going?" he asks.
"Well. There's times when I am reading and I get a big lump in my throat and my eyes get teary."
"I often see people on their way out of the library with tears in their eyes. There's a feeling here."
There is always the pervading tragedy of JFK’s assassination, of his widow, of his young children left without a father.
"So many memories. We're always surrounded by memories."
"Do you remember where you were when you learned President Kennedy had been shot?" I ask.
"I was in the eighth grade. I was in Parochial school. The Superior nun came in to our class and whispered to the nun who was our teacher. They both started crying. Then they sent us home."
While reading Oregon Senator Maurine Neuberger's oral interview, she recalls while campaigning for President Kennedy, when they came upon a group of nuns waiting on the sidewalk of a Catholic Church. They'd learned of Kennedy's schedule and waited in anticipation of his passing. As the future president passed, the nuns waved their arms and cheered.
"Where were you when he was shot?" the security guard asks me.
"I was only three years old, but I think I remember my mother crying."
"Yes, I'm sure she was crying."
~~
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