I grew up in the White House. Though I never officially resided there, I spent my entire life connected to the White House in one way or another. I attended Easter Monday Egg Rolls on the South Lawn in my youth. I attended Christmas parties and watched Fourth of July fireworks displays at the White House for as long as I can remember.
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My Dad, John Woodson Ficklin, was a White House employee when I was born. With a five year interruption for military service during World War II, his White House career spanned nine presidencies from Franklin D. Roosevelt until Ronald Reagan. He began as a pantryman, and was later a butler, head butler, and finally, maître d’hôtel.
On the sunny afternoon of Nov. 22, 1963, when I was seven-years-old, my Dad was at work and my best friend and I were playing catch outside his home in Northeast D.C. His mom suddenly appeared and told me, “Go home now.”
Bewildered, I obediently raced the three blocks home. I found my mother in tears in front of our small black-and-white television. She was a big soap opera fan, but I had never seen her cry over the “soaps.” She told me that President John Kennedy had been shot and asked me to sit and watch the news bulletins with her.
When Mom reached Dad on the telephone in the White House pantry to commiserate over the earth-shattering news, Dad’s response was disbelieving. There was no television in the pantry, and he had not heard the news. Dad would soon learn the facts. Over the next several days, Mom, my big brother Woodson, and I watched as our nation sank from shock into mourning. Dad did not come home to join us in our grieving. His prolonged absence was due to his service as a loyal butler tending to the needs of the first family of the United States.
On the evening before the funeral, J. B. West, the chief usher, called Dad to his office to tell him that Mrs. Kennedy wanted him to serve as an usher at the president’s funeral. Dad…
