I walked into my living room -- the TV was on and my father was unusually silent as he watched Walter Cronkite, and I sat on the floor in front of the TV as was my habit -- so I could see the picture. My parents hadn't figured out that my eyesight was so poor that I was legally blind, mostly because I had never known anything different and had been compensating.
Walter Cronkite was on a split screen, him on the left and a floor plan on the right, explaining the route the still unnamed assassin had taken to flee the Texas School Book Depository. Everyone knew that Kennedy had been shot. They did not yet know he was dead.
I was five years old and I was living in Houston, Texas with my parents, a three year old sister and a baby brother who was just four months old. It is the first clear memory I have, and it has long been an impact on my life. When my father bought a copy of the Warren Commission Report, I read it from cover to cover. I own my own copy now. I've read Jim Bishop's "The Day Kennedy was Shot" several times, have entertained (briefly) several conspiracy theories, trying them on over the years just to see if they passed muster. None have.
Even the inept can have One Good Day. Oswald was lucky on Nov. 22, 1963, JFK was not. What was left undone will forever haunt me.