When I awoke that long-ago Friday morning, my head was spinning with so many trivial thoughts that seemed important to a young woman on the threshold of adulthood.
What should I wear? Did I dare stretch my 30-minute lunch break into an hour? Would any of my compatriots at The Dallas Morning News join me on my lunchtime foray?
By the time I went to bed late that night â?? really, early morning of the following day â?? that young woman no longer existed. In many ways, I would never be young again.
That particular Friday was Nov. 22, 1963, and on my â??extendedâ? lunch break, while standing with three friends in front of the Texas School Book Depository, I witnessed (as the fifth-closest witness, according to an official source) the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
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