June 5, 1968 ... Everybody of my generation remembers where they were when they heard of the murder of Jack Kennedy. Bobby K., not so much.
I was near the end of my first year as a clerk-gofur-reporter at the Reno Evening Gazette. Already I didn't enjoy reporting.
June 6 sealed the fact. I was ordered out for a person-on-the-street story. I did OK until I stopped a 60ish foursome on the sidewalk to ask for their reaction. They were from Boston. Hadn't heard.
One man stood there and cried, silently.
One woman turned pale — ghost white — and fainted. Her husband caught her before she hit the ground.
The other woman screamed. And screamed. And screamed. Heads turned. A police car slowed down as it rolled past.
I doubt they heard my apology as I slunk away.
The on-the-street interview was shorter than my editor expected ... I left out the Bostonians.
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