In those days the teacher was proud of the radio that the county had afforded for her classroom. Brown Bakelite with black knobs outside. Tall, glowing tubes inside. There were times, strictly enforced, when the broadcasts of the local station could be played for the children. Special programming. “Musical Pictures” was one of them. The station would play some kind of music – Beethoven or some country dance. She would have given us art paper and told us to draw whatever came to mind.
One day a messenger from the Principal’s office came into our room and went to the front of the class and whispered into the teacher’s ear. And then the teacher was red-faced and almost crying and she turned on the radio – how out of place that was – and we heard the newscaster say that the president was now in the hospital in Dallas and then that the president was dead.