Val McCullough: Then — as now — our country was deeply divided

I can’t forget the day it happened.

It was early afternoon on a gray Friday in Mountain View, California. I was in the living room ironing Bill’s shirts.

The date was Nov. 22, 1963.

My ironing was interrupted when my neighbor, Jane Cashman, phoned, “President Kennedy (JFK) has been shot.”

I was stunned — almost in disbelief. How could this happen?

My daughter Claire — just home from kindergarten — still remembers seeing me crying as I continued ironing.

The shooting played on my mind as I fixed meals — did laundry — and played with our girls — who were then 5, 3 and 18 months old.

There is a sweetness in caring for young children, and I think these domestic rituals temporarily blunted the bitter news.

Two days later, I came home from church and learned that Lee Harvey Oswald — JFK’