by Neil Stout I was teaching in the history department at Texas A&M. I emerged from the university library stacks to find the reading room deserted. The attendants told me that the president, the vice president, and the governor had been shot in Dallas. I rushed to my office in Nagel Hall, where I listened […]
On November 22, 1963, I was coloring, the tip of my new red Crayola, irritatingly, already worn down to a nub. A neighbor—the first adult I had ever seen weep–came to the back door. “Go get your mother,” she screamed, “the President’s been shot.”
My father fought in North Africa and Italy during the Second World War. He didn’t like much of anything about being a soldier but he was proud to have helped to defeat Hitler.