A kind of moveable feast, Thanksgiving falls on the fourth Thursday of November, and this year that's November 22nd. People are traveling today, or making arrangements to meet kin who are. Plans are almost complete, the menu is taking shape, all is being readied.
But for some of us, it's the date on the calendar that fixes our attention: Like a pin through a butterfly. And the memories come back: stark, looming, black. Unstoppable. Because it happened November 22, 1963. Almost half a century ago now, but present again every November 22nd. And we live it again, moment by moment, as in a flashback that won't go away.
It is always 12:29 p.m. Dallas time when the motorcade comes into sight. Nothing ever changes in the immutable past, no matter how much we want it to. And we can't stop watching as the awful day unwinds like the Zapruder film, frame by frame:
The presidential limousine coming down Houston makes a sharp left onto Elm.
The president is smiling, waving.
Mrs. Kennedy looks at him with concern.
A bystander jerks his head suddenly towards Dealey Plaza.
The limousine is lost behind a street sign.
The president reaches for his throat, slumps toward his wife.
The governor of Texas, seated in front of the president, falls forward.
The shattering impact.
Mrs. Kennedy rises.
She is pushed back into the car by a Secret Service agent.
The limousine disappears from view beneath an underpass, headed for Parkland Hospital and history.
The film runs 15 seconds. And an eternity.
In the middle of the car wreck or the plunge down the mountainside, or in the mind of the drowning, time slows, then stops -- the way it does for some Americans every year when the page of the calendar is torn away and tomorrow's date revealed: November 22.
None of us will forget where we were when we heard. I was riding a subway to a job interview in Manhattan. A dirty, disheveled man came down the aisle -- nothing unusual in a New York subway -- but he leaned over, whispered something in my ear, and moved on to whisper it to the next passenger, and the next, and the next. It took me a while to make meaning of the slurred words, and then absorb them:
"They shot Kennedy in Dallas. ... They shot Kennedy in Dallas. ... They shot Kennedy in Dallas. ..."
I could see him enter the next car and do the same. Like the chorus of a Greek tragedy telling the tale.
At last he knew something no one else did -- at least for the moment. And he had seized the moment. He would finally live in someone else's memories. He would finally be important, memorable, somebody.