I remember where I was when JFK was shot

I was in sixth grade. We were coming down the south stairs at Everett's Washington Grade School. About three steps down the landing, Mr. Stivala, the 5th grade teacher was coming up with his class.
"The President has been shot," he said.
We returned to our room.
My teacher, Mr. Cardle, was beloved by his class for his humor. Today was the first time I saw him quiet.
We all sat quiet, not sure how to act.
Mr. Cardle took a black strip of paper and taped it to the flag. This, I was told, how you treated a flag that couldn't be lowered to half staff.
We stayed in school until the normal ending time.
I remember at recess seeing girls from the junior high school coming home early -- crying.
Was crying the more adult thing to do.
Was this worse than I knew.
How could a young man be dead?
What would happen to us.

I went home and mom asked, have you heard?
Like the entire nation, we grieved in front of the TV.
We were watching as Lyndon Johnson landed in DC.
He walked up to the microphones.
He had a huge nose and big dog-like ears.
When he spoke, he spoke with a thick southern drawl.
"Ihhhhhhh, aaaahhssk fur God's help and yurs."

My mother looked at our newly sworn in president and said aloud, "God help us."