How I wished I were old enough to vote in 1960. I was 19, turning 20 in November. If only the Presidential election was next year.

The college student adviser announced: “Students, the District Election Board is looking for counters in the up-coming election. The job begins at 7:30 p.m. on election day and ends when all the ballots have been counted. If you’d like to apply, come see me.” I headed for his office.

As a college student, not old enough to vote, I was hired at $1.25 an hour to count ballots for the District of Portland, Ore. Forty of us trained for two hours on election day. We were told to report back to the Fred Meyer store at 7:30 p.m.

A 40-foot spread of folding tables lined the center of a large storage room on the second floor. Metal, numbered chairs waited for us to take our places. We drew numbers, found our chairs and sat. My partner across the table was a guy named Jeff. Between us was a divided basket marked IN and OUT. We would spend the night talking to each other without conversation — we spent hours voicing vote tallies.

When polls closed, a large container arrived. Locks were removed. A trustee dealt 50 ballots to each runner, who placed them in the baskets’ IN sides. I was the first reader. I read ballot markings to Jeff, who recorded votes with black-ink hashmarks of five on a long score sheet. The runner picked up ballots from the OUT (ballots read) sides every 15 minutes. When our IN was empty, we received 50 more.

On each hour, we were treated us to coffee, pop, water and pastries from the grocery store downstairs during a 10-minute break. We switched tasks. By 4 a.m., voices were getting croaky. By 7 a.m., it was difficult to hear my partner’s calls. When we finish at 10 a.m., readers were whispering as the last ballots were scored. We gave a squeaky cheer.

The officials thanked us for our service and paid us in cash.

I might not have been old enough to vote, but I had an important part in the election. Kennedy was the winner.

Fast-forward to Nov. 22, 1963. It was a slow morning at the bank where I worked. A few bank customers drifted in.

The bank president threw open his office door and rushed into the lobby. He hastily helped the three people at teller windows finish their transactions, ushered them out the door and locked both entrances. In the silent room, his shaky voice stammered, “President K-Kennedy’s been sh-shot and, and killed. We’re c-closed for the day. Close out your tills. Go ... go home.”

No one moved. Had we heard right? Surely not. Things like this don’t happen in the United States. In reality it does. This was the fourth president to be assassinated in the almost 200 years of our country’s existence. It was the first in any of our lives.

The rattle of coins and the swish-swish of counting bills were the only sounds. We were anxious to go home, turn on our TVs and learn the facts. By the time the bus delivered me home, a man named Lee Harvey Oswald had been arrested.

Over and over and over on TV, they showed the smiling President and his beautiful wife, Jackie, waving to the crowd from the back seat of their convertible. The shot rang out, he slumped into Jackie, and she screamed, “No, God, no.” Chaos surrounded the car, a path through the crowd was cleared and the car sped to the hospital.

It’s the last scene I saw of Jack Kennedy alive. Jack Kennedy, the man who won the election I helped ballot-count in 1960. The man who helped avert the Cuban Crisis. The charismatic man who won hearts of even those who voted against him because he was Catholic. What would happen to our country now? The answer came with the swearing in of Vice-President Johnson into the presidential office 99 minutes after President Kennedy was declared dead.

On Sunday, the world watched as Oswald was moved to another jail. With no warning, a man moved in and shot Oswald. Jack Ruby avenged the death of his President. Did Oswald act alone? Was it an order by a government? We never heard the motive from the assassin’s own mouth. Life is full of unexpected events.

Chase Hoseley is a freelance writer and retired kindergarten teacher who lives in Clarkston. She looks forward to sharing her out-of-the-box, out-loud thoughts with you each month. She can be reached at shoseley8@gmail.com.