“The president is dead.”  For those of us who can remember those words from 50 years ago, they were seared into our brains like letters sand-blasted into a granite headstone forever: clear, succinct, and unmistakable in meaning. How could this be? Things like this did not happen, especially in the America of 1963.  But then a few days later, John-John, in his little top coat and short pants, saluted as the caisson went by holding his dad’s body covered by our flag. It was real all right, no doubt about it.

I had a personal connection to John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Just like the moment when I heard of his death, these moment(s) are also seared into my brain, and the memories of them are as clear and vivid as if they happened ten minutes ago. The only difference is these are MY moments with JFK. No one else ever had these moments, just me and the 35th President of the United States. And I do not care if you believe me or not. I just felt that I should share. Let us go back to November 5, 1960.

The most famous hotel in the Bronx was the Concourse Plaza Hotel on the corner of 161st Street and the Grand Concourse. Built in 1922, it was an elegant 12-story hotel three blocks from Yankee Stadium. Many of the Yankees had stayed there, including Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, and others. The hotel had a grand ballroom and fancy dining rooms. On Saturday, November 5, 1960, Senator John F. Kennedy was to deliver a campaign speech at the hotel. His fateful election to the presidency was now only four days away.

I had an after school job delivering groceries and stocking shelves for Harry “the Grocer” Greenhouse. I worked for Harry every day after school until 6 p.m. and on Saturdays from 10 a.m. until 6 p.m. One of my frequent delivery stops was the Concourse Plaza Hotel. There were a number of elderly tenants that lived there year round, and they always called Harry when they needed anything from bread to fruit to bologna to beer to band-aids or whatever. I would bag up the stuff, load it into a cart, and push it up the two hills to the hotel. I would go there at least twice a week, sometimes more. I had made a delivery to a customer on the eighth floor on Friday, and she told me that Senator Kennedy was coming in the morning to give a speech. She was very excited about it and told me she was going to make sure she was down in the ballroom when he arrived. She said she thought he was going to be there at 10 o’clock. I had to start work at 10 o’clock, and I was quite disappointed that I might miss my chance to see the Senator. Then things changed.

That Friday night I saw my friend ‘Sticks’ (real name Tommy) and told him about JFK coming to the hotel in the morning. He said we should just go up there about 9 a.m. and see what happens. It made sense to me, so that is what we did. I do not remember why but we did not get up to the hotel until about 9:30. We came up to the hotel through the rear loading dock, which was off 162nd Street. That is where I always came in to make deliveries, and I knew my way around the back and basement of the hotel like the back of my hand. It was a bit strange because there were no cars or trucks, or anything or anyone for that matter, at the rear of the hotel. The overhead doors for truck deliveries were closed, and the only way in was through a door up some stairs at the end of the loading dock. ‘Sticks’ hurried ahead of me and went through the door. I was not as quick, so it took me about an extra half minute to reach the door. By the time I did ‘Sticks’ had disappeared. I hurriedly walked down a short corridor and made a left. I can remember that it was quite dark. (Whew! Right now, as I write this so many years years later, the memories have become crystal clear.) I made the turn and froze dead in my tracks.  Someone else had also stopped short.

The man I had almost walked into, and who was now looking me in the eye, was Senator Kennedy. We were less than a foot apart. He had finished his speech and was leaving via the rear entrance. He was with another man. That was it. No one else was there. Just me, John F. Kennedy, and some other guy. The other man simply stepped near me and said, “Excuse us son.”  I said nothing and stepped back. Senator Kennedy smiled at me and said, “Good to see you.” Then he and his friend walked down some stairs and exited the door that led to 162nd Street.

The rear stairwell was right in front of me, so I ran up a half flight to a platform and opened the big window. I looked out, and below me and maybe 50 feet away the next President of the United States was standing next to a limo, just talking to the man he had left the hotel with. There were no police, no guards in the street, no one else. I was staring out the window at John F. Kennedy. He was wearing a dark blue topcoat that had to be very expensive, and his face had a perfect tan, something you do not see in New York City in November. His thick, sandy hair was blowing a bit, and he ran his right hand up and across it. Then it happened. He looked up at me, smiled (I can still see his teeth) and held up his hand. He did not wave it, he just held it up. He probably held it up for about two seconds.

He was saying good-bye to ME, a kid from the south Bronx who just happened to be there at that moment. I held up my right hand to him and I guess I smiled. I don’t remember. Then he got into his limo and was gone. I watched as my new friend’s car turned onto the Grand Concourse. Talk about a “moment in time”.

“Hey, what are you doing?”  I turned and ‘Sticks’ was at the bottom of the stairs. “I didn’t see him,” he said. “Did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

When I was growing up in the Bronx, we lived on the third floor in a five story walk-up on Sherman Ave. There were eight of us in a four room apartment. In the apartment below lived Leo and Sophie Rabinowitz.  Quite often, in the middle of the night,  blood-curdling screams filled the back alley and our apartment and the hallways outside. The screams were coming from the Rabinowitz’s.  It was Sophie. She was having recurring nightmares. But Leo was the landlord, and no one dared complain about the eery howls that constantly reached the ears of so many. There was one man,  however, who could not leave this alone. That man was my father.

I remember that Friday night long ago very well. The screaming started about midnight. It was September, and the windows were still open because it was hot, and the screaming seemed exceptionally chilling. Dad got up, and my brother whispered from his bed, “I think he’s going down there.”  We got up and followed him, and, without hesitating, Dad walked up to Leo’s  apartment door and began banging on it with his fist. We watched from the stairs as the door slowly opened. Leo poked his head out and just like that my father was embracing this little Jewish man who had buried his head in Dad’s chest, crying unashamedly. My brother and I, crouched down and peeking from the landing above,  were stunned.  Then Dad disappeared into that apartment with Leo Rabinowitz and did not leave for several hours. Sophie was having nightmares all right, recurring nightmares of her two boys, ages 12 and 9, being clubbed to death by the Nazis as they made her and Leo watch. Try as I may, I cannot  imagine what those moments in their lives were like. They were loving parents and were helpless, unable to save their very own children, as godless people clubbed them to death. The Nazis tortured the parents further by allowing them to live.

My father has been dead for many years, but he is still teaching me about being Catholic today. How? The gospel reading for All Saints Day is from Matthew 5:1-12. The Beatitudes. When the priest read #7, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God,” I remembered that Friday night long ago. I remember how a Catholic man reached out to his Jewish neighbor, and how they became friends. I also remember that because of that friendship Leo and Sophie Rabinowitz became friends with the other folks in the building. My father was the ‘peacemaker’ who initiated the peacemaking process. He did ‘GOOD’.

We have just celebrated All Saints Day and All Souls Day. During the reading of the Roman Canon, First Eucharistic Prayer, the following words are read prior to the words of consecration: “In communion with those whose memory we venerate, especially the glorious ever-Virgin Mary, Mother of our God and Lord, Jesus Christ, and blessed Joseph, her Spouse, —–and all your saints.”  Were not all of them Jewish? Yeah..I think they were. There is no denying this fact. They are all canonized saints, and their Judaism was always part of who they were.

Finally, let me mention our Holy Father, Pope Francis.  The Pope is very good friends with one of the primary Jewish leaders in Argentina, Rabbi Abraham Skorka.  In October of 2012, he presented to Rabbi Skorka an honorary doctorate degree from the Pontifical Catholic University of Argentina. It was the first time such an honor had been bestowed on any Jewish man in all of Latin America. Upon presenting the award to Rabbi Skorka, the Pope (then Jorge Cardinal Bergoglio) said, “You cannot imagine how long I have waited for this moment.”

It was a small group, but a powerful one.

Eleven writers met in the colorful, peaceful wilds of Michigan to reflect, pray and write together in a tiny little community. We listened to inspiring speakers and critiqued one another’s work. We spent time with Christ in the Blessed Sacrament.

Our retreats are a different experience from our conferences. Smaller, more intimate, more focused on the craft and vocation of writing.  It is an experience, a slice of living outside of our normal lives. Margaret Rose Realy (the retreat coordinator) has already written a bit about her experience this week. You can read some of her thoughts here and here. I hope to hear from others. (Retreatants – if you blog, please post a link in the comments below!) Meanwhile, here are some photos from our week in Michigan.

First – we had our meals together in the scenic retreat house dining room. This is our first meal together:

Margaret Realy leads retreatants on a walk through the gardens that she designed at the retreat center.

Here’s award-winning novelist Michelle Buckman, giving the first of her series of talks during the week – “God is in the Details.”

Ave Maria Radio Show host of “Kresta in the Afternoon” – Al Kresta – came with his producer Nick Thomm to give his talk on “Knowing Jesus, Sharing Jesus.” He inspired us to evangelize…and to not be afraid. He and Nick spent the night and watched a movie with us the night before his talk. It was great to have him with us.

Michelle leads a critique session in front of a comfy fireplace. She was freezing most of the time, poor Southern girl… 😉

The entire retreat gang:
Top (left to write): Tim Neboyskey, Connie Beckman, Sister Anne Marie Walsh, SOLT, Margaret Ann Stimatz, Michelle Buckman
Middle: Margaret Rose Realy, Leticia Adams, Leslie Lynch
Bottom: Ann Margaret Lewis (me), Michelle Jones and Jessica Yankovit

Things I forgot to take pictures of  (no, seriously, I forgot my phone a few times and I cannot believe I did this, so if other folks have pics, please share): We had a bonfire and toasted marshmallows under the stars, and speakers David Krajewski (who took us through “The Call to Write” and how it relates to the Joyful Mysteries) and Fr. David Rosenberg, who spoke about how he accomplished a very special project though collaborative writing.

It truly was a lovely time, and I hope more of you join us next year!