I was in the first grade, a six year old dreamer. My few memories of Sherman School are terrifying. Being forced to square dance regularly, red ants invading the playground, and some older kids scaring us little kids with dry ice. Why dry ice was scary I do not know, but it most certainly was.
Our neighbors on Leavenworth Street were the Waldrons. They had one child, Sara. We were fast pals, she being a year older than me. Her dad often took us to school, and he had the coolest Volkswagen Bug ever. It would start without a key, which I found mysterious and exciting.
"That" morning, I remember the teacher telling us that President Kennedy was dead, and then all of the school's students being herded through the hallways and onto the playground. Reactions were varied, depending on ages of the children. Us young ones seemed mostly frightened and confused, and some kids in the upper grades were noticeably upset. All of the teachers and staff seemed to be wailing.
I was indeed confused, yet aware of the enormity of the unfolding event. See, my parents were big JFK supporters, always. Politics were already familiar to me-since I had heard grown ups discussing them from the time I could comprehend. I still recall my father's disdain for Barry Goldwater.
At one point, after what seemed like an unusually long stint on the playground, an older student approached me, sobbing. She said: "Why aren't you crying? Don't you know the president was shot?" Then she punched me in the stomach. And I cried.
School ended early. Things were intense when I got home from school that day. My parents were upset in a way I was unfamiliar with. And although I had not yet reached the alleged age of reason (7 years), I knew that the reliable little world I had known would never be the same. It was not.
My second grade report card from Sherman School.
