Editor’s note: This column was penned by the late Gazette columnist Jim Cahillane and was first published in the Gazette on Nov. 17, 1993, six days before the 30th anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination.

Recently while rooting around in the closet of my life I found saved copies of the Springfield Union and The New York Times dated Nov 23-26, 1963.

It was not an unexpected discovery. We’ve lived in the same house all these years and I knew exactly in which drawer they rested — unread — since the day I bought them.

Nov. 22, 1963 prompts these few words, words that will reach for my emotions at the moment, words to evoke that instant in time, words — that must eventually fail.

It was a Friday, sunny and mild. I had driven down to Holyoke that noontime on business. While there I stopped to buy a same-day birthday present for my wife. We had been married for a little over eight years and were blessed with five healthy children. The youngest a girl, was 11 months old.

Thanks to its new design, the 1963 Rambler was Motor Trend magazine’s “Car of The Year.” All year long it had been a runaway sales success at around $2,300 delivered in Northampton. Life was good.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy knew my dad and vice versa. For a brief time, at least in my dad’s house, they seemed to walk upon the same stage. Dad was mayor of Northampton for three terms in the 1950s, and was a delegate to the 1956 Democratic Convention in Chicago. There, Kennedy lost the vice presidential nomination to Sen. Estes Kefauver by a whisker.

Dad was also friendly with Hatfield’s Bill “Onions” Burke. Burke had been appointed by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt to be Collector of the Port of Boston and was a power in Democratic state politics and someone with whom a rising young Jack Kennedy would inevitably cross swords. As a friend of both, Dad once found himself as witness and mediator to history.

Dad’s contacts made him a font of little Kennedy stories. How, like royalty, Jack never carried any money with him. At Mass, he would turn to Kenny O’Donnell or Larry O’Brien at the collection for something to put in the basket. One day Kenny begged off, showing Jack that he only had a $100 bill; Kennedy grabbed it threw it in and laughed. Dad’s JFK stories always ended in laughter.

The 1960s began with political wars, ended in sadness, and a real war in Vietnam.

Nixon versus Kennedy was the classic Democratic/Republican contest. Our Massachusetts fair-haired boy vs their Californian opportunist. Our witty Harvard-educated intellectual vs. Venezuela’s “Ugly American.” Our Irish Catholic vs. their WASP. Our Profile In Courage vs. Tricky Dick. Our Navy war hero vs. their Navy lawyer. Our millionaire who spoke up for the poor and disadvantaged and their “Chequer’s Speech” bootstrap boy who defended the interests off the rich. Our new senator vs. Ike’s vice president. General Ike, who when asked what Nixon had contributed to his presidency blessedly replied: “Give me a week and I’ll think of something.”

Their wives: Glamorous Jackie who wrote books with her sister, even spoke French, vs. cloth-coated Pat Nixon, who her husband said was Irish. A too pat claim which cut no ice in true Democratic homes. The Irish word to describe that campaign is donnybrook. (Webster’s: a rough rowdy fight or free-for-all). No quarter asked, none offered, none given. To quote my grandfather Stephen’s happy phrase, “Twas grand, ’twas grand.”

John Kennedy had been president for almost three years, income taxes were cut in 1961, people’s real income was growing. America was moving again. We built a new house for our growing family and settled in. Maureen sat in the front room by the picture window opening her present. In the background our new car sales award AM-FM radio was playing soft music.

“We interrupt this broadcast.”

“Shots were fired today at the President’s motorcade in Dallas.”

“It is not yet known if anyone was hit.”

“Stay tuned to this station for further reports.”

“Bulletin: this just in. The president has been shot. Repeat ...”

Except for a first, involuntary, silent prayer, we were speechless. We hugged. We wept.

Near blinded with tears, I ran out the back door toward South Street and the dealership. The first person I saw was my father — dressed in hunte r’s orange — carrying a shotgun. He, a borrowed bird dog, and one of his buddies had just returned from their morning pheasant hunt.

“Jack Kennedy’s been shot,” I screamed at him in fear. “I’m going down to St. Mary’s to pray.” I had no other thought or plan. At that moment no other action seemed valid.

I don’t recall Dad’s reaction. He probably swore, then prayed silently. I was too wrapped up in my own grief for what felt like, what became, the end of innocence. Hope killed. All because of a mail-order rifle, and the mindless, stupid anger — to pull a trigger.

Since that day, we’re all 30 years older. Life has doubled for me; I’m seven years older than my father was when he went hunting.

Today, I stepped into a wardrobe, and it was yesterday.