I was with my best friend Pete Bergman. We were school safety patrol volunteers and part of our responsibilities were to raise the American flag the morning of each school day. We had performed our task dozens of times, always being careful to properly raise the flag and make sure that Old Glory never touched the ground.
But this day was different. We had been given specific instructions on how to raise the flag this gray morning and for the following 4 weeks: hoist the flag to its peak for an instant, then lower it to the half-staff position. As simple as these instructions were, I must have gone over them a hundred times in my head. We sensed it was important to get this right. Hoist the flag to its peak for an instant, then lower it to the half-staff position.
It was the morning of November 25, 1963, and I was 10 years old. Our President had been slain and his assassin had been murdered. The excitement of the previous Friday had turned somber as we gathered around a fittingly black and white television screen to watch the caisson carry the body of John Kennedy to his resting place at Arlington National Cemetery. We watched in silence. The only sound was the horses' hooves on the pavement.
And so on that morning and with the utmost care, while the school principal looked on, Pete and I hoisted the flag to its peak for an instant, then lowered it to the half-staff position.
It would take years to understand the significance of that day, but somehow I knew I was a tiny part of something historic, and took a moment to photograph the flag at half-mast. I turned to see the principal crying, unable to fight back the tears. And neither could we.
