“We heard the news on the radio. It was all horrible news,” my mother remembered. “Jim quickly went back to the office.”
As my dad rushed towards the Cannon building, a cab pulled up with Ted Henshaw, a future Clerk of the House, and my father's friend and drinking buddy, John Mahoney, who worked with Henshaw at the Democratic National Congressional Committee.
"As we were walking up the steps to the building, your father came running down the street and he said to me - and I will never forget," Mahoney said – ‘The president has been shot, perhaps fatally!'”
Back then, there weren’t walls of televisions in every office. But in Mahoney’s office, there was a teletype machine that brought in news from around the world.
“We all tore into the office of course and sure enough, there it was - Merriman Smith had filed a story for UPI,” said Mahoney.
“We literally tore the subsequent bulletins off the tape before they made it on the air,” my father said.
Like news of Pearl Harbor and the 9/11 attacks, November 22, 1963 was seared on the memory of many of my father’s fellow aides on Capitol Hill.
“I was in the cafeteria having lunch and someone ran in and said, "The President's been shot!" and all hell broke loose," said Abe Boni, a longtime friend of my parents.
“I jumped up out of my chair - I don't know where the hell I thought I was going - but I jumped up,” Boni said many years later, like it was yesterday.
When the news broke, Roll Call newspaper founder Sid Yudain was downtown at the time, in a most peculiar place for any reporter.
“I was in the ladies room at the Meridian Hill Hotel, which was the hotel for girls at that time,” said Yudain, who had been out to lunch with the hotel owner, a real estate mogul who ran ads in Roll Call.
There was no men’s room, so the manager took him to the ladies room and locked the door.
“The next thing I know, his name was Goldberg (the manager), and he came in banging on the door and said, ‘You better get out of there! JFK has just been shot!’”
Yudain scrambled back to Capitol Hill, stopping first for a drink and to watch the television at the 116 Club, a local political watering hole on the Senate side that most people probably still don’t know even exists.
“Then I went to (Speaker) McCormack's office,” said Yudain, but staffers would not let him in at first because of stepped up security for the Speaker in the aftermath of the assassination.
Earlier, one of Yudain's reporters had found the Speaker - standing by himself - in the House Press Gallery, doing the same thing my father was doing across the street, reading the reports coming in on the newspaper wire machine.
But things didn't stay calm for long for the Speaker, or the Congress.
“I remember the state of panic,” said Mahoney, who also was drawn to the Capitol in the immediate aftermath of the news.
“I saw the Secret Service flooding the Hill and they came to get Speaker McCormack,” said Mahoney.
“I saw him, he was absolutely ashen, I mean he was white panic in his face, and I will never forget that. It left me cold.”
“This was Mr. Confidence, he ran the House like some piece of machinery and all of a sudden there he was in the arms of the Secret Service,” said Mahoney.
The view from outside the U.S. was also interesting, and that came in a late 1963 letter to my father from his college friend Larry Russell, who recounted what it was like to get the news overseas.
Russell was working at the U.S. Embassy in Algeria, where he worked for the State Department as a top aide to Ambassador William J. Porter.
"I can add nothing to what your own thoughts and reactions must have been and will not try. In the cold, bleak dawn of another day, however, you might be interested in knowing what this sort of thing does to a small segment of the President's staff overseas.
"I was attending a cocktail party for Walter Reuther at the Ambassador's residence when the U.P.I. called to give the old man (the Ambassador) the news of the attempt. He took it rather calmly, came back to the main room and announced it to us all, and the party went on. The Ambassador then excused himself and went upstairs to turn on his radio (he is a HAM operator), dragging me along with him. He tuned in on a broadcast direct from the States, left me to listen and returned to his guests.
"It was thus that I had the very unfortunate job of bringing the final news to the old man. They were fairly good friends, the Porters hailing from Massachusetts and having a summer home very near that of the Kennedys, and the Ambassador took it like a blow to the stomach. He then had to announce the news to his guests, and the party broke up. Then the Ambassador wept. That was certainly my most difficult moment.
"You can't imagine what Kennedy meant to the career Foreign Service officer, particularly the men like Bill Porter who knew him personally."
To my father, it was obvious what Kennedy meant. Years later, there were still pictures of the 35th President in my dad's office.
In a note to his friends nine years ago, it was clear there was still pain.
“The effect on this still somewhat idealistic Congressional aide who had been privileged to know and work with some of the top Kennedy people, was devastating," my father wrote; "things never seemed to have that same brightness and élan again."
The next few days after Kennedy was assassinated, hundreds of thousands converged on the U.S. Capitol to pay their respects, as they filed through the Rotunda in the bitter November cold.
"I wanted to go there, but Jim wouldn't let me stand in the cold," my mother remembered years later, noting that she was days away from giving birth.
“It was a horrible time for everyone," she said.
Note: This is an updated version of an article written by Jamie Dupree in 2013.