November 23, 1963

Everybody by now knows what happened to President John Kennedy on this date in Dallas, Texas. And what happened to Lee Harvey Oswald. And Jack Ruby. It was an event that would ricochet through New Orleans and my journalistic career.

♦

Carlton called to offer me a part-time job at Channel 9. It would take three months before it was full-time.

I was raised on black and white movies and the standard of reporters then was to put a card marked PRESS in the hat band next to the crown. The thing was, fedoras stayed in black and white films and, for the young enterprising reporter, no hat was the style.

Each reporter could apply for a press card upon getting gainful employment with a recognised media – newspaper, TV or radio, for these were the days before bedroom bloggers, websites, and freelancers were accorded journalistic status.

And local government was the judge of whether you were a real reporter or not.

I took the paperwork to Baton Rouge police, which produced a mugshot, tapped in my particulars on a typewriter, finger-printed me, laminated it against danger of rubbing while secreted in my wallet, and then sent me on my way, a full member of the reporter’s fraternity.