Yesterday passed by with hardly a mention. The date was November 22nd. It was the 46th anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. I was 17 years old, and a Senior in high school at the time of his death. He was inaugurated when I was a Freshman in high school, and a good part of his campaign took place during the summer immediately prior to my entering high school, after completing my elementary education at a Catholic school.
Being of Irish descent, and a Catholic to boot, JFK, the young, handsome Senator from Massachusetts was revered by my family. As I've often said to friends, aside from pictures of family and Jesus, the only other person whose picture adorned the walls of my family home was President Kennedy. All of us, my parents, grandmother, brothers, and I, cried at the news of his death, and remained glued to the television during the next few days in a period of national mourning and shock.
It has often been said that everyone can remember where they were when they heard the news that JFK had been shot. I know I can. I was in Mr. Lanzarotta's class when our principal broke in over the P.A. system to give us the awful news, and then left the radio on for the entire school to hear the ongoing reports.
After his death was confirmed, a full school assembly was called, with all students and faculty gathering in the gym. It was somber. My teacher, Mr. Lanzarotta, recited Walt Whitman's poem, "O' Captain, My Captain". I remember many students and teachers alike with tears streaming down their cheeks. I, like a lot of the males in the senior class fought back our own tears. After the assembly we were dismissed for the day. It was then, in my 1955 Buick, driving home from school, listening to the radio reports, I released my pent up tears.
His death, like his election as the first Catholic, was a seminal moment in my lifetime. It inspired me some 5 years later to work for his brother Bobby's campaign for President - only to be crushed again when he was struck down by another assassin.
Yesterday, though, it was incredible to me that the only mention I heard of JFK's assassination was as an afterthought to a story about the son of his younger brother Ted. Representative Patrick Kennedy was apparently denied communion by a bishop of the Catholic Church because he supports the rights of women to choose abortion. That was the story - and, oh, by the way, "...this occurred on the 46th anniversary of the assassination of his uncle, President John F. Kennedy."
I guess time marches on, but it does seem to me that this should have been a bit more than a footnote to a story. For those of us who lived it, JFK"S assassination will indelibly be marked on our minds forever.
Old Fart Mike
Monday, November 23, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Roots
I haven't blogged for quite some time. Just been busy, I suppose, though I don't know what with. But one of the things that has been occupying my mind lately is family roots, or, more defined, "from whence we come". Last month, had he lived, my dad would have reached the ripe old age of 99. Next year, obviously, the date of his birth will mark 100 years since he made his entrance into life in Chicago, Illinois. I guess that is what got me started thinking about family roots.
One thing, I imagine, is passed on from generation to generation is parents wishes that their children "do better" than they did. I know that it is true in the generations of my family at least. Parents want their children to succeed, have more money, realize greater fulfillment, have a nicer home, have more and better things, and generally, just reach greater heights than they themselves did. It seems natural. It seems like it should be. In my particular family, some of this has already occurred, and some in well on the way to happening.
My Grandfather and Grandmother Hughes had nothing much to speak of, from what I've heard. They lived in an Irish village in South Chicago, near the majority of my Grandmother's family. She never worked, which was pretty much the custom in those days, and my grandfather was mostly a laborer. Neither ever left Chicago.
My dad, the youngest of four, had a 6th grade education. He married my mom, a high school graduate, who came from a broken family, my maternal Grandfather having left my grandmother when my mother was a little girl.
While my brothers and I all received our high school diplomas, only the oldest of us went on to earn his college degree, though I did take some college course. My wife also did go to college, yet did not complete her studies either. Neither of her parents went to college either.
Through hard work, a driven personality, an incredibly supportive wife, and some luck, I was able to succeed in an industry far beyond what could have ever been expected considering my roots in a working class environment with no advanced education. We, though, had the foresight to realize that our children would need the benefit of college to achieve the goal of "doing better than their parents". So we made a pact of getting them through college. We provided the money and encouragement. They provided the hard work, and desire. We see now that they are on the way to that elusive goal.
However, if there is one thing I could tell them - or anyone, for that matter - it would be don't forget your family's roots. I did for a while. I started playing with the rich and famous and almost forgot about the difficult work put in by the generations before me in my family to allow me to reach the heights I did.
To think that my great great grandfather escaped Ireland in the Potato famine, leaving behind other members in his family to venture to a new world sometime in the 1840's would lead to what I have now is almost unbelievable. His son, for whom I'm named, eventually moved to Chicago from the East Coast, and began yet another new life there.
My grandfather Hughes, whom I only saw as an infant - and then my Grandmother Hughes, who died in early 1954, gave birth to my dad. My grandmother Hughes' death allowed my dad to make the move to California - when I was but 7 years old.
Moving to California was like heaven to my dad, whose experience with it previously had come as a Marine, going and coming from WWII. It enabled him and my mom to buy a home for the first time - the first one purchased by anyone in his family, ever. He was 44 years old at the time.
Years ago, long after my dad had passed, and my mother was gravely ill with cancer, I drove my kids past that home. The home I grew up in. I was trying to make a point about how far I/we had come. About roots. I don't think they got it. But I am hopeful that someday they will. I know in my youth, I was too busy trying to climb that ladder & grab that brass ring to stop to reflect on how far I'd come. It wasn't until I reached a certain age that it dawned on me. That little house I grew up in seemed to be the most beautiful thing in the world at the time. It was filled with the roots of the generations of family who had never owned a home before.
Old Fart Mike
One thing, I imagine, is passed on from generation to generation is parents wishes that their children "do better" than they did. I know that it is true in the generations of my family at least. Parents want their children to succeed, have more money, realize greater fulfillment, have a nicer home, have more and better things, and generally, just reach greater heights than they themselves did. It seems natural. It seems like it should be. In my particular family, some of this has already occurred, and some in well on the way to happening.
My Grandfather and Grandmother Hughes had nothing much to speak of, from what I've heard. They lived in an Irish village in South Chicago, near the majority of my Grandmother's family. She never worked, which was pretty much the custom in those days, and my grandfather was mostly a laborer. Neither ever left Chicago.
My dad, the youngest of four, had a 6th grade education. He married my mom, a high school graduate, who came from a broken family, my maternal Grandfather having left my grandmother when my mother was a little girl.
While my brothers and I all received our high school diplomas, only the oldest of us went on to earn his college degree, though I did take some college course. My wife also did go to college, yet did not complete her studies either. Neither of her parents went to college either.
Through hard work, a driven personality, an incredibly supportive wife, and some luck, I was able to succeed in an industry far beyond what could have ever been expected considering my roots in a working class environment with no advanced education. We, though, had the foresight to realize that our children would need the benefit of college to achieve the goal of "doing better than their parents". So we made a pact of getting them through college. We provided the money and encouragement. They provided the hard work, and desire. We see now that they are on the way to that elusive goal.
However, if there is one thing I could tell them - or anyone, for that matter - it would be don't forget your family's roots. I did for a while. I started playing with the rich and famous and almost forgot about the difficult work put in by the generations before me in my family to allow me to reach the heights I did.
To think that my great great grandfather escaped Ireland in the Potato famine, leaving behind other members in his family to venture to a new world sometime in the 1840's would lead to what I have now is almost unbelievable. His son, for whom I'm named, eventually moved to Chicago from the East Coast, and began yet another new life there.
My grandfather Hughes, whom I only saw as an infant - and then my Grandmother Hughes, who died in early 1954, gave birth to my dad. My grandmother Hughes' death allowed my dad to make the move to California - when I was but 7 years old.
Moving to California was like heaven to my dad, whose experience with it previously had come as a Marine, going and coming from WWII. It enabled him and my mom to buy a home for the first time - the first one purchased by anyone in his family, ever. He was 44 years old at the time.
Years ago, long after my dad had passed, and my mother was gravely ill with cancer, I drove my kids past that home. The home I grew up in. I was trying to make a point about how far I/we had come. About roots. I don't think they got it. But I am hopeful that someday they will. I know in my youth, I was too busy trying to climb that ladder & grab that brass ring to stop to reflect on how far I'd come. It wasn't until I reached a certain age that it dawned on me. That little house I grew up in seemed to be the most beautiful thing in the world at the time. It was filled with the roots of the generations of family who had never owned a home before.
Old Fart Mike
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