The Day John F. Kennedy Was Laid to Rest: A Nation Stunned and in Mourning
By Verne Strickland (age 26 at the time of this writing)
By Verne Strickland (age 26 at the time of this writing)
We headed for Washington, D.C., on November 24, 1963. It was
a bright but cold Sunday as we rolled out of Raleigh in the waning afternoon.
There were three of us – Will Rogers, executive secretary of the North Carolina
Farm Bureau; Thomas Daniel, vice president, from Wilson, who had joined us in
Raleigh for the trip; and myself. I was director of information for the organization.
Little was said on the six-hour trip up. We mostly stared at
the passing scenery as the radio – giving continuous coverage of the crushing
drame which was unfolding – forced us deeper into our own thoughts over what
had taken place.
Surprisingly, the traffic on U.S. 1 Highway was not heavy.
It thickened some as we approached Washington, but never appeared to be
unusually heavy. We commented on this several times.
The first sight of Washington made my heart strike with a
dull, reverberating thud. The commentators on the radio, it seems, had prepared
us for this. We did not enter the city
that night. But as we neared the Potomac, we could see the Capitol
Building shining cream-colored there amidst a sea of twinkling lights on a deep
field of black. The President’s body lay there in state, and knowing that it
was there seemed to hush our emotions as well as our voices. Washington was in
mourning.
We found a motel at our first stop. This, too, surprised us,
for we were aware that thousands upon thousands had flocked to Washington to
pay their respects to the late President. We all turned in about 1:00 a.m. But
even with the lights out, we continued to leave the television going, and watched
intently from our beds. At about 2:00 a.m., the station concluded its
broadcasting for the day, and we fell into fitful slumber.
As we had ordered, we were aroused by telephone at 4:30 a.m.
Somehow we had no trouble waking and moving about as we prepared ourselves to
leave. The television was again snapped on. We saw an unending procession of
mourners filing through the Capitol Rotunda past the bier which bore the
flag-draped coffin of President Kennedy. Sorrow-inspiring organ music in a
minor key was the only sound emanating from the television. It was as if the
announcer felt nothing could be added.
It had been cold in the room. But outside in the pitch black
of early morning the cold was biting and bitter. As I had no overcoat, I had
bundled myself in two pairs of pants, three undershirts, a sleeveless sweater
and my black woolen blazer. I had questioned my appearance in the fact that my
blazer bore silver buttons. Even this seemed to me gaudy at the time.
There was no heat in the automobile – a long, roomy station
wagon. Thus, the interior was barely warmer than the air outside. There were
stars above as we crossed the Potomac by way of a bridge. Other cars moved with
us and met us. And there was the Capitol in the distance. Agreeing that the
crowd of mourners must have thinned by this time, we headed straight for the
Capitol. It was our intention to file past the bier if there was opportunity.
In the city, things were different. In the dark, people
could be seen in patches on the sidewalks. Cars moved about, but not in number.
We parked a block from the Capitol building and began mounting the long series
of stone steps to the Capitol’s rear entrance.
We began to think that
the television reports must have been in error. Though there must have
been an unusual amount of people out for that time of morning, we commented
that our assumption must have been right – perhaps the line gathered for the
quick trip through the Rotunda had dwindled. Certainly few people would have
the fortitude to stand in line through such a hard-cold night.
Big globes cast a cold light on us as we mounted the steps.
All around us were the hushed voices of black figures whose features were hard
to distinsguish in the pale globes’ glow. I happened that we had approached the
Capitol from the opposite side of the line, as a policeman explained. We should
have known, as more people were descending the steps than ascending.
A few lights, curtains drawn, were lighted. I wondered what
person must be inside, and what he must be doing. I felt small as I
contemplated the sad, awesome business he must be about.
The line. We saw it as we finally rounded the stone corner
to the front of the Capitol, and passed under a lofty archway. It stretched
down the innumerable steps and out of sight in the dark to our right. A
policeman would not let us nearer, perhaps fearing that we might break the
line. He told us that it stretched for 28 blocks, and that some of the people
might not even get inside before the Rotunda was closed at 10:00 a.m. It
happened that he was right.
We decided to leave. People to the the side of the Capitol
shaded their eyes and peeked curiously through locked glass doors of the
tremendous building. We left under a sky now a fading blue-gray. Dawn was
approaching. We found our way to Union Station, where we decided to have
breakfast. Inside there was a great amount of activity. People walked about,
and others sat on the many hard-backed wooden benches and napped.
We had to stand in line to eat. We seated ourselves and
noted diners all about us engrossed in newspapers whose heavy black headlines
told the still stark news of the day. The waitresses, seemingly old and
wrinkled, joked with us and two fellows seated nearby. It did not somehow seem
in bad taste.
Mr. Rogers and Mr. Daniel decided we should go the St.
Matthews’ Cathedral to station ourselves and wait for the procession. I had
suggested going to Arlington Cemetery for the interment which was scheduled for
mid-afternoon. I consented to the Cathedral trip, not realizing that they meant
for us to remain there. The dawn had not fully arrived as we parked in a small
lot, already filling with
mourner-bearing automobiles.
The walk to the Cathedral – some four or five blocks distant from the parking lot – was one I shall never forget. At that early hour, crowds had already begun to deepen on the curb along the procession route. Some men, dressed only in suits, hunched their shoulders against the cold. We passed clusters of figures sleeping figures lying on the sidewalks at the feet of those who stood. One prone figure had a blanket pulled over his head. I saw a fellow walking along carrying an Army sleeping bag. He appeared to be just arriving. Though we were only three among thousands, I seemed to feel that we were about business, and had a purpose in being there. We reached the Cathedral, and decided to go inside before claiming a spot on the sidewalk. The curb had only a single line of people at that time.
The Cathedral, from the outside, was bulky and heavy in
appearance, with none of the grace nor pomposity I had expected. Its
red-bricked exterior seemed small considering the occasion of which it was
destined to be a part. Inside, though, it was lofty. The exterior had been
deceiving. It was almost full, and some sort of service was going on at the
altar. A gloriously-robed priest moved about there and uttered phrases in
Latin. I fought down a whisper of a feeling that I was invading the Cathedral’s
sanctity because I am Protestant. We remained only a moment there at the rear
of the church, and then went back out.
(I wrote no further at this time, but later penned a poem
about the whole experience. It seems to extend the narrative you’ve seen here.)
IN MEMORIAM, JOHN F. KENNEDY
“Waved his hand while time was waning, rode the streets
where Death did wait. Infamy its head was rearing on that day in Texas State.
“Bright the sun shone there in Dallas. Smiling crowds stood
row on row. Black the heart that looked upon it. Black the day life’s blood did
flow.
“By his side was one who knew not what the day would chance
to bring. Smiled she, too, until a bullet caused a funeral dirge to ring.
“Those of us who only knew him, as we watched him from afar,
like as not felt, too, the void which
from that day her joy would mar.
“Weep we now for that young widow. Pray we, too, the scythe
of time may from here heart extract the scars which blemish thoughts of days
sublime.
“Sublime? Oh, no! For days on earth are filled with thorn as
well as rose. And her days here, without her mate, must surely rhymes of tears
compose.
*************
“Walked a street where rolled the caisson that his lifeless
body bore. Stood in crowds, bent now in sorrow, felt the sting of Nevermore.
“Cold the wind blew in that city, where the cortege,
weaving, crept. Stirred, then, thoughts of colder clime, which would his
now-stilled form accept.
“O’er his casket watched the colors that he hailed and
served and sought to keep a-waving that this Nation strong would stay. And this
was wrought.
“Black lace shielded by the grave the tears which from those
dark eyes fell. Dust to dust, and ash to ashes. Take him now. He served Thee
well.
“White-gloved hands then rushed to fold this flag for which
he so did care. Impassioned, vowed we to remember that the torch is ours to
bear.
“Hearts were hushed as ‘cross the river floated soldier’s
sad drum roll. We are here to face tomorrow. God have mercy on his soul.”