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Hello Reader,

Today’s my birthday! And since I was about 12 or 13, I’ve kept a small but meaningful tradition: every year, I read about JFK.

I was born in a small Northeast Arkansas town — less than 24 hours after President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas.

I think about that a lot—the timing, the strange closeness to history.

The events of that day were enough to send my mom into early labor. And there I was: bringing joy to my family while, across the country, the news of a president’s death echoed through every living room.

This year, I returned to a beloved and oft-revisited piece of writing: Chapter 15, "The Drums," from Robert Caro's The Passage of Power.

There’s something about the way Caro describes that rainy November morning, the black-draped doorway of the White House, the clicking heels of Marines heard through television microphones. It pulls me in every time—no matter how many times I’ve read it.

The passage paints the scene of that Sunday after Kennedy was shot, and it takes me there in a way that even the old television footage can’t.

Because of the drums.

Excerpt from Passage of Power​
Chapter 15: The Drums

And then, the next morning, Sunday morning, began the roll of the drums...

Jacqueline Kennedy, dressed all in black, not crying — at least, there were no tears on a face that might have been the model for a portrait of Grief. On either side of her, the two small figures dressed in sky-blue coats, her children, taking her hands. Robert Kennedy, expressionless, standing a little behind them...And then the drums began to roll...

Few people in Washington — few people in America — had ever heard the sound of muffled drums. The tension on each drumhead loosened, the resonance deadened...

The drums filled the air: melancholy, ominous, final. And it was to that sound that the caisson moved down Pennsylvania Avenue, the black horse behind it, riderless, boots in the stirrups turned backward, prancing nervously as if the animal itself knew the meaning of the day.

... The drums, the silence of the crowd, broken only by the clatter of hooves on pavement, the sharp click of a boot. The hush deepened block by block, the weight of grief shared by a sea of faces, flags at half-mast...

The terrible drums.

Caro, Robert A.. The Passage of Power: The Years of Lyndon Johnson IV (pp. 641-642). Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

Great stories illustrate the dichotomy of how we, as humans, have the ability to hold multiple emotions.

This Caro passage grounds me, even in its heaviness. And yet, it’s just a part of the story — my story. One that’s also filled with the joy of a new year of life, of family memories, and of books that remind us of where we come from and where we’re going.

Books have that ability, don’t they? To take you somewhere no footage, no retelling can.

Books give us a way to feel the past in a way that is personal, visceral, almost like a memory — even though we were never there.

But today’s not all about the heavy moments. There’s also cake to be eaten and maybe a terrible birthday hat to wear.

So here’s to remembering the past, and here’s to celebrating the now—drums, candles, and all.

Thanks for reading — and helping me celebrate. Reader.

I'll see you next week
— Tracy

P. S. Happy mom-a-ver-s-a-reeeeeee to my all-time favorite mom. 🙏🏻❤️

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