Mourning Bells are Ringing

Inspired by Kennedy’s vision of what he called the “New Frontier,” Dad constantly encouraged us to think big and pursue our goals with “vigor,” echoing the President’s words from his many televised press conferences.

Winner of The Letter Review Prize for Nonfiction

My Dad was a design engineer for a major aerospace company on Long Island during the space race of the 1960s. This was a source of family pride, especially since President Kennedy had set a goal for the U.S. to land a man on the moon by the end of that decade.

“We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard,” the President had said in a speech to Rice University students in September 1962. This sentiment became a favorite of my father’s, often repeated to us whenever we faced any significant challenges. While Dad’s good intentions to motivate us were clear and appreciated, it could also be slightly annoying—especially when you were grappling with a difficult challenge and just wished things could be a whole lot easier.

“What’s the ‘New Frontier,’ Dad? Where is it?” I asked, after the President had referenced it in one of his speeches.

“It’s not exactly a place, Steven. It’s more of an idea.” And when I looked at him blankly, he continued. “It’s the idea that there are no limits to what’s possible. Whatever you can imagine, you can achieve. It’s a new and exciting era we’re living in, Steven. A future wide open to endless possibilities.”

But sometimes, as I came to discover, that world of endless possibilities could quickly take a dark and dangerous turn.

I vividly recall the fear I felt during those seven anxious days in October 1962, when news of the Cuban Missile Crisis dominated the airwaves. Glued to the black-and-white TV, we watched as the President addressed the nation, informing us of the Soviet Union’s build-up of an arsenal of nuclear missiles in Cuba, directly targeting the United States’ mainland.

“Why would we stay here if the Russians are planning to drop an atomic bomb on us?” I asked my father, my voice filled with real worry. I’d seen enough science fiction movies to know that an atom bomb could vaporize anything in its path, including the possibility of unleashing dormant monsters sleeping in the dark beneath the ground.

My father looked at me, considering the weight of my question, and said, “It’s a tough situation, no question about it, Steven.” He rose from his chair, came over, and gently patted the top of my head. “But how about we turn off the television and go outside and play catch with the football? Let’s leave the heavy lifting to the President and the Russians for now. I have faith they’ll find a way out of this mess.”

And so we did, throwing the ball back and forth in the cool air of early evening until my arm grew tired and I became exhausted. That evening, he tucked me into bed and stayed beside me, his presence offering me a gentle reassurance until I drifted off to sleep. Only in later years did I understand the depth of worry he had about the threat of a nuclear holocaust, a crisis that was resolved only a few days later.

As part of President Kennedy’s challenge to send a man to the moon, Dad’s company was selected by NASA in 1962 to design and build the Lunar Excursion Module (LEM), which would transport astronauts from lunar orbit to the Moon’s surface and back. Engineering the LEM posed significant challenges, such as ensuring it could endure the vacuum of space, the Moon’s lack of atmosphere, and extreme temperature variations. This necessitated the development of many new innovative technologies and engineering solutions.

Because of his intense involvement in this project, we sensed that Dad was part of something big. And he made sure we felt a part of it. On occasion, he’d share with us what he was permitted to reveal about the progress of each major step of this project.

Whenever he and his team achieved an important milestone, he’d take us to Mom’s favorite Italian restaurant in town for a rare dinner out. As we dove into our spaghetti and meatballs, he would enthusiastically describe, in broad strokes, a simplified version of the solution his team had devised to overcome a particular design problem.

“We shared the results with NASA, and they are as excited as we are!” While I couldn’t grasp the specifics of the solution he was describing, I understood it was a big deal — especially since Dad was on his second Manhattan and was once again quoting Kennedy on the importance of overcoming obstacles, occasionally directing a quote or two at us kids.

“Listen up, kids. You need to pay attention in school and put in the work — it’s the key to your future and the future of our country,” he would emphasize, capturing our attention with his intense hazel eyes. “As the President often says, ‘The infinite potential of the human mind can be realized through education.'” He paused to let the words sink in, then repeated to underscore his point: “Just take a moment and imagine that! The ‘infinite potential of the human mind’ achieved through education. Amazing, right? Remember that kids!”

After taking another sip of his cocktail, Mom would gently elbow him and murmur, “No more.” He’d pause his dinner-table lecture, give her a loving look, and plant a kiss on her cheek. She would playfully lean away, resisting his gesture, and wipe away the kiss with her cloth napkin, whispering, “Oh, stop it,” before nudging him and adding with a laugh, “Don’t start getting any funny ideas, Mr. Moonlight.” Turning back to us, Dad just smiled and gave one of his sly winks, seemingly unfazed.

I smiled back at both and wondered about the “funny ideas.” I wasn’t sure what they were, but I liked that Mom nicknamed Dad “Mr. Moonlight,” a song I often heard her sing to herself when she was getting ready for her nursing shift at the hospital.

We also knew when things weren’t going so well, particularly if he sat in the living room with a glass of bourbon on the rocks and a cigarette, listening to Andy Williams on our new RCA hi-fi console, engineer’s pad in hand. I would sit nearby, poring over the album cover and listen to the beautiful and soothing strains of “Moon River” alongside him. I knew not to talk or ask questions during these reflective moments. I could tell he was concentrating, mulling over the day, jotting notes on his pad. It was during these times he would suddenly look up at me and say, “As JFK often puts it, son: ‘Those who dare to fail miserably can achieve greatly.’ Remember that, Steven. There’s no shame in failure if you give it your best shot,” before returning to his notes on the pad.

During the height of the program, his work often took him away from home on business in Houston. On one of his many business trips, Dad had the privilege of meeting the original team of Mercury astronauts. Somewhere, perhaps in the corner of my dad’s old closet, we have a framed photo stored away of him standing with the team in a group shot, which had hung on our wall for many years. He would proudly point out the astronauts, saying: “That’s John Glenn, the first American to orbit Earth,” and pointing to Gus Grissom, he’d add, “He’s my personal favorite.”

It was all very inspiring. Amazingly, my dad was helping to build a spaceship that would land on the moon, and our family was part of that incredible journey. This adventure filled us with excitement and hope for a very bright future. Everything was possible. First the moon, then what? The stars?

But then came that watershed moment that changed everything.

I was seven years old and sitting in Miss McKay’s second-grade class. Miss McKay was my first major crush, outside of my mother. I was convinced I would marry her when I grew up and hung on her every word. We were all singing a humorous French lullaby about a monk who overslept and missed ringing the morning bells.

Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!
Ding, ding, dong. Ding, ding, dong.

Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping?
Brother John, Brother John?
Morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing
Ding, dong, ding. Ding, dong, ding.

The song was meant to introduce us to French and the concept of singing in a ’round’. Miss McKay split the class into thirds and conducted us in the song. The first group began “Frère Jacques,” and as they sang, the next two groups would join in staggered times in consecutive order, forming a harmonious round.

Judging by the proud look on Miss McKay’s face, and our own beaming smiles, we must have been doing okay.

As we repeated the French and English phrases, a couple of teachers appeared at the doorway of our classroom. We continued to sing as the teachers whispered urgently into Miss McKay’s ear. When they were finished, Miss McKay let out a short, but loud, gasp. The class abruptly stopped singing as she disappeared into the hall with the other teachers. Urgent whispering could be heard. Something was very wrong.

When she returned, her face was flushed, and her eyes were red.

“Class,” she began, her voice slow and quivering, “Principal Johnson will soon make an announcement. When she’s finished, we’ll be dismissing class early and you’ll all be going home.” With that, she turned away from the class. I saw her dab her eyes with a handkerchief. She seemed to be crying. The classroom buzzed with a mix of confusion and joy. Something was going on, but all I knew for sure was we were getting out of school early. And on a Friday afternoon too!

The P.A. suddenly squealed with feedback. After an awkward pause, Principal Johnson’s heavy, almost sighing breath broke the silence.

“Good afternoon, students,” Principal Johnson began, her voice echoing through the P.A. system. “I regret to inform you that President Kennedy is gravely ill. He’s been hospitalized and is in critical condition. In light of this news, school will be dismissing early. Those of you who take the bus, the buses will be arriving shortly. I urge you all to go home and pray – for President Kennedy and for our nation.” After a brief pause, the sharp sound of the dismissal bell suddenly rang, almost jolting me out of my seat. I quickly gathered my belongings and joined my classmates in an orderly exit from the school.

I didn’t need to wait for a bus since I lived only about a mile away. I guess the President must have been very sick for us all to be sent home early to pray for him. I knew no one had made such a fuss when I had my tonsils removed.

As I made my way home, my mind wandered. I forgot about the call for prayer and instead turned to how I planned to use my unexpected free time. Maybe today I could venture down to the lake and search in the forbidden woods for the huge glacial boulder Dad had told me about. But instead, when I got home and walked through the door, I found my mother on the phone, softly crying as she spoke.

“I can’t believe it; I can’t believe he’s dead.” Who was she talking about? Who was dead?

“What’s the matter, Mom?” I had never seen her like this, and it scared me. “Why are you crying?”

“The President is dead,” she whispered, voice choking, fighting back tears. She turned away from me, speaking into the phone in hushed tones. “When are you coming home?”

It had to be Dad she was talking to, I thought.

Shedding my jacket and books, I took a seat at the kitchen table. I remembered Principal Johnson saying President Kennedy was very ill, but I hadn’t expected him to die. Maybe if I’d prayed on my way home…

When she finally hung up, I hesitated, then asked, “How did the President die? Principal Johnson only said he was very ill.”

She broke down again, her eyes welling up. “Honey, he was murdered by a terrible man.” Murdered? My mind raced to understand what I was hearing. So, the President wasn’t hospitalized because he was gravely ill. He was never sick. He’d been murdered!

Taking a deep breath, my mother tried to steady herself. “Someone shot him… in Dallas, Texas.”

“Isn’t Dallas near Houston, where Dad’s working?” I asked, on the verge of panic, suddenly aware that anything could happen at any time. “Is he OK?” I didn’t want something bad to happen to my dad too. My heart began to race.

Mom took another deep breath, her hands shaking slightly. She sat down, lit a cigarette, and looked me directly in the eyes. “Don’t worry, Steven. Dad’s okay and will be flying home tonight.”

I looked away, torn between a sense of relief that Dad was safe and my lingering confusion and sadness over the murder of the President. How could a man like President Kennedy be dead? Why would anyone want to kill him? I guessed, not everyone saw him as my parents did. There must have been some people who hated him.

Suddenly, the world outside of our house seemed much darker and scarier than I’d thought. I longed for Dad to get home. I wished for the comfort of my family, for us all to be together and safe.

The world of adults turned topsy-turvy over the next few days and weeks. The television was constantly on, featuring distressed reporters and eyewitnesses in near hysterics as they tried to account for the inexplicable series of events unfolding around the murder of President Kennedy. They endlessly used the term “alleged shooter” when referring to the arrest of a guy named Oswald, whose movements from one room to another in a Dallas police station were broadcast live. In a short, televised interview, Oswald seemed like a regular person to me, surprised when a reporter told him he was accused of killing Kennedy. Wearing a white t-shirt and with beady sharp eyes, he reminded me of the stern man who worked at the village delicatessen, who was known for making the best potato salad in town. Looking at Oswald on the television, I wondered how someone so ordinary could murder a man like Kennedy, who had seemed to me larger than life.

The entire weekend was very unsettling, like some bad, dark dream. My parents and neighbors seemed unusually confused and disoriented. My father, normally firm and confident, appeared particularly distraught; his eyes intense and furrowed—almost angry. I watched him talk to the man who lived across the street, who also worked on the moon program. They stood in the driveway, sipping bottles of beer, discussing the impact of the Kennedy murder. The man occasionally raised his voice and, in another moment, angrily wiped away tears with his sleeve. Neighbors, who never gathered in the streets unless there was a block party, now found themselves standing outside their homes, commiserating with each other about the tragedy. Conversations revolved around the assassination, the “alleged shooter” Oswald, the blood on the dress of the President’s wife when she disembarked from the plane behind the President’s casket in Washington, D.C., the grand state funeral being planned for that upcoming Monday, and the swearing-in of the new President, a man with large ears from Texas named Lyndon Johnson. I wondered if the new President was somehow related to my own Principal Johnson.

On the Sunday following the assassination, I was in the living room with my father, studying my growing mineral collection through a magnifying glass, when the television announced that they were transferring the “alleged assassin” to another jail. I looked up from a pretty sample of rose quartz to see the black-and-white image of a Texas sheriff, wearing a large white Stetson, escorting a handcuffed Lee Harvey into what looked like a public parking garage. As they made their way through the crowd of reporters and came into view, another man seemed to appear out of nowhere and shot Oswald in the belly. Oswald’s mouth opened wide and shouted “Oh!” as he grimaced and fell to the ground. The guy who shot him, who looked to me like an ordinary businessman on his way to work, was immediately pummeled by everyone who could get hold of him.

My father jumped out of his chair and shouted to my mother, who was in the kitchen making Sunday dinner. “They just shot Oswald! My God, it looks like they shot him dead!”

My mother ran into the living room. “What? Who shot him?”

My father, frozen in place and tongue tied, pointed at the television. “I don’t know who. They shot him.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“That man, the one they’re mauling.”

Once she understood what just happened, my mother seemed to deflate and leaned on my dad’s shoulder. “Oh my, oh my,” she murmured quietly as she gazed at the chaotic images on the television. She then turned her eyes to me, alarmed I was in the room. “Steven! Did you see that?” Whirling back to my father, she said, “Steven saw that! Why did you let him see that?”

“Uh? What do you mean? It just happened out of the blue. There was no way anyone could have seen that coming.”

“I don’t care; our son just saw someone get shot on live television.” She turned back to me, now more calmly. “Honey, I wish you hadn’t seen that. Please go to your room and stay there until I call you for dinner.”

I thought to myself: Go to my room? Why? I didn’t shoot anyone! I took my rock collection and went to my room, anxiously waiting for Mom to call me for Sunday dinner. I could hear the muffled sounds of pandemonium pouring out from the television through my bedroom walls. I then heard my father exclaim, “What in the name of God is happening?”

A couple of hours later, during dinner, the TV announced that Oswald, despite being rushed to Parkland Memorial Hospital—the same hospital where President Kennedy had been pronounced dead just two days earlier—was declared dead from his gunshot wound. My father dropped his knife and fork onto his plate, then quickly left the kitchen table and rushed back into the living room.

I looked at my mother, who was now dressed for her evening shift at the hospital. “What are we all going to do, Mom?”

My mom didn’t look up from her plate. “I honestly don’t know, Steven. For now, let’s just finish our meal.”

Kennedy’s funeral dominated the television that Monday. We all gathered in the living room to watch. My mom, dressed in her nurse’s uniform for the evening shift, sat next to Dad on the couch, while my older brother, sister, and I sat on the floor. If any one of us kids started talking or goofing around, my father would quickly shush us.

We watched the unprecedented, wall-to-wall live coverage of the solemn funeral procession. It started at the U.S. Capitol, moved to a Roman Catholic service at the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle, and ended at Arlington Cemetery. My father informed us that the funeral services were being broadcast worldwide, with the signal transmitted via recently deployed satellites to over 300 million viewers across 23 countries.

“It’s a first in broadcasting,” he said, expressing his amazement at the emerging technology. “Even people behind the Iron Curtain in the Soviet Union are viewing this. Imagine that.”

“Yeah, imagine that,” my mother chimed in, her voice tinged with irony. “It would figure that the first event to bring the world together would be the assassination of our president.”

The images were as dramatic as anything I’d seen on TV. The horse-drawn caisson, carrying the flag-draped casket, as it moved through the capital; the crowd of mourners lining the streets, silently watching the procession go by to the steady beat of a corps of drummers; the pounding chorus of their drums echoing throughout the city; the caisson followed by a solitary riderless black horse.

When a brigade of pipers began playing a mournful tune, my brother and sister began to march around the living room laughing, pretending they were Scottish pipers. I began laughing too. “Knock it off,” my father said, somewhat half-heartedly. They both sat back down on the floor suppressing their giggling and elbowing each other. They then both tumbled on me, and we all broke out laughing again as we piled on top of each other. My father looked from my mother to me and my siblings, and then directed an ultimatum to us: “Stop or leave the room!”

Once we settled back down, I looked back at the television. The cameras were now focused on the President’s family – Mrs. Kennedy, dressed in black, their daughter Caroline, who was close to my age, and the President’s three-year-old son, known affectionately to the public as ‘John-John’. He stood on the pavement outside the cathedral with his mother and sister and then, after a prompt from his mother, saluted the casket bearing the body of his father as it passed by. The TV announcer mentioned that it was the boy’s birthday, which made everything seem that much sadder. I looked at my father sitting on the couch with Mom as they both watched the proceedings. I couldn’t even begin to imagine a birthday without my dad being there. The thought of him dying and leaving me forever struck me hard with a rising sense of worry: I never want to lose my parents. Ever. I don’t know what I would do without them. My mother must have caught the look on my face. “What’s up, kiddo? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” I answered, although it was beginning to seem like everything in the world was the matter. I hoped my mother hadn’t seen the look of fear on my face, and quickly turned my attention back to the television.

Later, when the funeral procession finally reached the cemetery, Mrs. Kennedy, her black veil fluttering in the cold November wind, took a torch and lit a flame that was supposed to burn over the President’s gravesite forever. That was the moment my mother let out a deep sigh and began quietly weeping. My father took her in his arms, held her tight and softly stroked her hair to comfort her. I watched as Mom buried her face in my father’s chest, her shoulders silently heaving. At the sight of this, I quickly excused myself and left the room. My brother called out behind me, “Where ya going, brat?” I didn’t answer as I was holding back my own tears. Boys were not supposed to cry, and the last thing I wanted was to bawl in front of my family, especially my brother. I didn’t like seeing my parents so upset, especially Mom. I felt my eyes welling up as I left the house and went outside into the backyard. It wasn’t until I was out of sight, hidden behind the garage, that I let myself cry.

The next couple of days brought a deluge of ‘special edition’ memorial magazines, each one with the President’s portrait on the cover, arriving in our mailbox. At this point in my childhood, I had a compulsive habit of drawing mustaches on magazine figures with a pen or marker—regrettably, even on pictures of the recently deceased President. My mother was not amused, and she expressed her disapproval in no uncertain terms. My sister called me a dummy, and my brother admonished me with a punch to my arm. “Not very bright Steven,” he said reveling in my being reprimanded.

Finally, just a few days after the President was buried, we journeyed to Baltimore to celebrate Thanksgiving with my cousins on Dad’s side. Our two families gathered around the dinner table, and thanked God for our blessings and offered up a prayer for the well-being of the nation.

After dinner, my aunt brought out the pies and placed them on the table: pecan pie, sweet potato pie and my favorite, pumpkin pie. After dessert, the kids began to scatter from the table into the living room and outside to the backyard. I remained behind, savoring my pie and listening to the adults as they smoked and had their coffee.

“Hey, I wasn’t a supporter of JFK, if truth be told,” said my Uncle Charlie, Dad’s brother. “That Bay of Pigs fiasco, and his support of that civil rights troublemaker. No, not a big fan at all. Having said that, I don’t think he deserved to have his brains blown out of his head on the streets of Dallas.”

“Charles, please,” my mother said firmly. She looked down the table at me. “Steven, please finish up your pie and leave the table. Go outside and play with your cousins.” I was still trying to imagine what a bay of pigs looked like as I finished my pie.

“Just saying, no man deserves that, being gunned down like a dog,” Uncle Charlie continued. “I think that two-bit bum Ruby did us all a big favor when he popped that damn son-of-a bitch, Oswald.”

My mother got up and tried to scoot me from the table. I wanted to hear the rest of the conversation, so I pretended to help clear the table to linger a while longer.

“Problem is Charlie,” my father chimed in, his face reddening. “Now, we’ll never know.”

“Never know what?” he responded, choking down the last of his pie.

“Never know why Kennedy was murdered.” Dad stirred his coffee and stared into the cup with a faraway look in his eyes.

I finally left the table, went outside, and joined my cousins in a game of kickball, chilled by my uncle’s graphic comments about the assassination and its aftermath. I wondered if my cousins were also not “big fans” of Kennedy. I was also curious what he meant by civil rights, and who the troublemaker was that Uncle Charlie seemed to so dislike.

The following day—against my objections, as I wanted to stay behind and continue to play with my cousins—we took the one-hour drive from Baltimore to Washington D.C. to visit the President’s burial site in Arlington National Cemetery.

“Listen. No matter your uncle’s views on the subject, it’s important we pay our respects to the President,” my father said as he glanced at us in the backseat through the rear-view mirror. “The man gave his life for this country. He had a vision and an idea of a bright future, a new frontier, which he left behind, for us to…to pursue…” Dad started to choke up and didn’t finish his thought.

Mom jumped in. “Do you want to stop and take a break?”

Dad straightened up and cleared his throat. “No, no. That’s OK. Let’s just get there.”

Surrounded by a makeshift white picket fence, the fresh grave lay under a mound of dirt, adorned with flowers from well-wishers. A flame flickered atop the mound, lit by Mrs. Kennedy as her final farewell before leaving her husband to eternity. As we all filed past the gravesite, I was struck by the profound sadness and solemnity of the long line of mourners, including my mom and dad. Dad moved slowly along the line, capturing the somber moment with his home movie camera. I noticed his eyes were wet when he stopped filming and moved his face away from the eyepiece of the camera. I had never seen him cry.

As I gazed at the flame, I thought of Uncle Charlie’s explicit comments about Kennedy’s murder on the Dallas streets. I countered that image with a recollection of the broad smile the President would often flash on television after making a witty remark. The silly little song we sang in class on the day the President was killed echoed in my head: “Are you sleeping, Brother John? Morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing…” The lyrics, once innocent and even humorous, now seemed ironic and haunting, even tragic. Those mournful days in November marked a profound shift in spirit; I felt it in myself and sensed it in those around me. Something intangible had slipped away, not just a man named Kennedy.

On the long ride home, we were all tired and very quiet, lost in the sound of the car’s tires whirring along the road, punctuated by the steady rhythm of bumps from the highway’s expansion joints. I stared out the window at the cars speeding alongside us. I wanted to ask Dad if we were still going to land a man on the moon but thought better of it. I also wondered how Miss McKay was doing. I hoped she wasn’t still feeling sad.

“What happens now?” I heard my mother ask my dad.

“I’m not sure,” my dad replied quietly, turning with a glance toward my mother. “We just keep moving forward, I guess.” Mom didn’t respond; instead, she continued staring straight ahead at the white lines of the highway coming toward us.

And we did move forward, though it seemed not as confidently as before.

As the years passed, the family would often sit together and watch the scratchy 8mm home movie my father filmed that day at the gravesite until it eventually found its way into a shoebox, which in turn found its way into a dusty closet with other relics from our past. The echoes of that time which I still feel today, reverberating within me all these years later.

Brian Demarest is a writer from Long Island, New York, focusing on memoir, short fiction, and playwriting. Recently, he’s developed a passion for collecting rare first edition books, a hobby which may soon require a family intervention. His work has appeared in The Write Launch, and he continues to explore new literary projects.