Obituaries
Former Palm Desert Resident Recalls Family Tragedy 50 Years Ago, Days Before Kennedy Assassination
The following was shared with Patch by former Palm Desert resident Steven J. Scott, 57, of Hollywood.
Monday, November 18th
Fritos!
One of the most exciting aspects of our family's move from Escondido to Palm Desert long ago was that my Uncle Del had gotten my Dad a job with his company, Frito-Lay, as a fellow deliveryman. The main perk of this new job? All the free Frito-Lay products we could eat, including unlimited Fritos. I loved Fritos, but they had always been a rare luxury in our humble home. No more!
At 7 years old, arriving at our new home in Palm Desert, California seemed very exotic and foreign to me. We found ourselves in an isolated housing tract at 42-511 Stephani Circle, in the middle of a vast desert, surrounded by endless acres of sand dunes, date palm groves and intense heat. Our modest new rented home was a classic mid-century modern, complete with a loose white-rock-covered roof, and most magically, a pool shared with a number of other homes circling it: A lighted, kidney-shaped pool that glowed and beckoned on those beautiful desert nights. We couldn't spend enough time in it, playing games and lounging in the styrofoam life preservers. Over time we became a little bored with the pool, and I eventually couldn’t stand the even the sight of Fritos, but the desert retained its magic.
On this Monday while at school in second grade, I was called to the main office. My older brother, Stanley (one of six siblings), was there with a very worried look on his face. He said we needed to go home from school early that day because our parents had asked for us to be sent home as soon as possible. I asked him why, but he didn't know. I could see that he was confused, and not at all the self assured, cocky kid he normally was. There was now a vague worry on his face and in his voice that I had never heard before.
It shook me.
We ended up going home on different busses that day for some reason, but I was the first to arrive at our regular neighborhood bus stop. Much to my surprise, my Dad, Stan Scott Sr., was there waiting for me in our station wagon. Why wasn't he at work? Why was he picking me up in our car when our home was such a short walk away? This all put me on edge. Even at 7, I could sense that something was wrong.
I had sort of a distant relationship with my Dad at that point. Not for any particular reason, but he was a strong young man's-man, and I was a rather shy, effeminate kid who wasn't at all like my rambunctious, 'all-boy' brothers; Stuart, Stanley, and especially my younger brother Ward. As a result, I don't think private time between us was ever really that comfortable for either of us, and with my concern about my brother's odd behavior still lingering, I felt my worries amplify.
"So how was school today" was his determinedly cheerful first line. "Ok," I said. Then silence….
"You know son… something bad has happened to your Mother."
So this was it. My worst childhood fear had been realized: My Mom, Bonnie, had been harmed in some way!
With my worry and unease already built up, I immediately burst into tears. I loved my Mom with everything I had, and couldn't imagine anything bad ever happening to her. She was one of the few people in my life who I knew believed in me and loved me unconditionally. It would destroy me to think of anything bad ever happening to her.
"No son, your Mom's ok, she's fine!" my dad said in mild panic, realizing that he had said exactly the wrong thing. In his awkward way, he had tried to break awful news to me without having to say it directly. He had tried, unsuccessfully, to dance around the subject briefly so he could figure out a way to deliver difficult news, that he had no idea of how to deliver, to his 7-year-old son. In retrospect, I realize that he was doing his best, but it must have been very, very hard for him. Flustered, he finally just said what he had to say; "Son, your Mom's fine, but your little brother has died."
Died? Ward, my 3 year old little brother, Dead?!! I was totally disoriented and confused by this.
"How?" I asked.
"He drowned in our pool."
When Stanley finally got home from school, I stared at him intently as he entered the door. How would he react? He later told me he could see in my silent expression that something was not right. "Ward died," said my 5-year-old little sister, Paula, as she ran up to greet him. She couldn't grasp the gravity of the situation at her young age. My Dad, at his wits' end by this time, came in and told him bluntly, "Your brother Ward has drowned." Stanley was confused as well, and asked, "You mean he's at the hospital? He still has a chance, right?"
"No son, he’s dead." Stanley then uttered a pathetic, tearful and horrifying "no, No, NO!!!" and ran off.
Ward Guy Scott was 3 years old when he drowned. He was very cute, precocious and the most endearing blonde-haired, blue-eyed kid you could ever imagine. He was also a handful.
Ward was always trying to run off the second he got a chance. With six active kids to attend to, it was inevitable that my Mom would occasionally loose track of one of us. Ward had made a quick escape once before into the dunes surrounding our housing tract. We called and searched frantically for him, and luckily found him before the merciless heat of the desert could envelop him.
On morning of the 18th, my Mom needed to run some errands, and placed him with Paula in the back seat of our station wagon. She remembered something she had forgotten in the house, ran quickly to retrieve it, returned to the car, and found that Ward had escaped again. Frantic, she went directly to the pool. She could see nothing in the clear water except for the styrofoam life preserver. That must have been a relief to a woman who regularly trained little kids to swim at an early age to save them from the dangers of drowning (me and my older brothers included). She hadn't gotten around to teaching Ward yet.
She went to the dunes surrounding our house where Ward had escaped to before. She called and searched.
Nothing.
Running back to the house, she passed the pool again, but this time, noticed a small shape nestled tight in a corner at the bottom of the pool: a sight that had been easy to miss from her previous angle…
Ward.
My Mom immediately dove in fully clothed, brought him up, and made a valiant poolside attempt to administer CPR, but it was in vain. It was later speculated that Ward might have been trying to reach for the styrofoam life preserver he loved to play with when he accidentally fell in.
November 19th and 20th
When you're 7, your parents are your unquestioned pillars, your foundation, your towers of strength who will always be there to love and project you. To be made aware of the fragility of life at such a young age, and to see my Mom emotionally destroyed, crying inconsolably for hours, surrounded and comforted by her elders and siblings, was the most shocking thing I have ever witnessed.
I remember passing by her dark room many times just to catch a glimpse of her. I sensed it was not my place to intrude on her grief; that seemed like something best left to the more qualified adults around her. Though I had no idea of what I could do to ease her pain, I still felt worried, concerned and even protective of her. On one passing my Mom looked up from her tears, our eyes met, and I couldn’t help but to run into her arms. We hugged tightly and she cried quietly in my ear, "Oh Steven, I'm so sorry. We all loved him." She was addressing our sadness about Ward, but I was thinking, "Mom, I just care about how you're doing right now."
My Dad, who felt it his duty to be the strong man-of-the-house in this situation, remained stoic. He was devastated as well, but felt he had to put up a brave front for the benefit of his family, and most importantly, for his bereaved wife. When his parents arrived at our house, he hugged his Mother, then collapsed at her feet in grief and sorrow. As shocking as this was for us to see, it suddenly made my Mom stop crying, as she came out of her room, and went to console and hug him. Many years later my father confided that he believed this is what saved them both: his freedom to grieve, and her realization that her family still needed her love and care.
My Mom came from an extremely dysfunctional, broken home, with an emotionally abusive mother who died young of alcoholism. With Ward's death, and with false accusations in the local paper that she had somehow been a negligent mother, she had every excuse to bury her sorrows in drink and depression, but for some miraculous reason, which we have only begun to fully appreciate, she decided… made the choice, to be a stable, cheerful, creative, joyous presence in our young lives. A choice for which we are forever grateful.
Thursday, November 21st
In what must have surely been the saddest funeral anyone there had attended, we held a Mass for Ward at the Sacred Heart Church in Palm Springs. This was our local family church, but one made famous from an earlier visit there by President Kennedy in 1962. We later drove to Coachella, and interred Ward's small casket at the Coachella Valley Cemetery.
Ward's death stands as our family's greatest tragedy. Though we've had good lives, and were brought up in an upbeat, optimistic, love-filled home, it's a tragedy from which we've never fully recovered, even as we mark its 50th anniversary.
Friday, November 22nd
Ward was born in 1960, just before President Kennedy was elected, and died on Monday, November 18th, 1963. That Friday, a rifle was pointed out of a window halfway across the country, three shots were fired, and our beloved president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was dead as well.
The first memory I have of this is when my paternal grandparents arrived for a prayer service at our church. The news of the President's death was on a small black and white TV in the foyer. They stared at the TV in disbelief for a few moments, then my grandma had what must have been a nervous breakdown, crying, "What's happening to the world!" as she crumpled to the floor. My grandpa held her and tried to calm her, but she was inconsolable.
We were a conservative Republican family, but we loved the Kennedys because we were also Catholic. Mrs. Kennedy and my Mom seemed similar to me in my little kid's mind. Both were young, beautiful, charming, motherly and of a similar age as far as I could tell. In fact The President had recently visited Palm Springs, and made a side trip to Palm Desert just so he could visit our Sacred Heart Church to celebrate Mass. I can still remember the excitement of their visit. My Mom took us kids in our station wagon to see the President arrive at the airport. Stanley immediately bolted from the car in his individual quest to see him, leaving the rest of us small kids, and my Mom stranded in the car. It was scorching hot in that mid-day desert, and we were miserable and crying. We never got the see the president, but Stanley climbed to the top of a fence and got a glimpse of him. Though Stanley was in big trouble, he was beaming and proud that he got to see the President. When Mr. Kennedy came to our church, we went in hopes of seeing him there. Again my brother bolted from the rest of the family, and spied some empty seats in the middle of the church. What luck! He made his way past other stunned congregants and sat in the best seat in the house, only to be tapped on the shoulder by one of the many secret service agents suddenly standing around him and told "Son, that's the President's seat. You're going to have to find another one."
My Mom was a talented painter, and though in great emotional pain after Ward’s death, offered to paint childhood portraits for the parents of other children who had also died tragically (a boy who suffocated in an abandoned refrigerator he’d accidentally locked himself into comes to mind). She was so moved and heartbroken by Kennedy's death and the suffering of his family, that she did an oil painting of him shaking hands with our parish priest. We offered it to the Kennedys, but they were apparently so overwhelmed by such gifts and tributes that they politely declined it in a letter. The painting remains a family treasure, and hangs in my brother Stanley's home to this day.
In a very strange way, the Kennedys' misfortune had a comforting side effect for me as a child. When Ward's funeral had come and gone, and we had to re-enter the world, the world was in mourning as well. I remember thinking that I just couldn't take it if I saw other people laughing and enjoying themselves while my family was suffering, and I never did.
My little brother, Ward, and President Kennedy lost their lives within days of each other. Our families were from different worlds, but were bound for life in our hearts because of our shared tragedies.
As the years passed, I was vaguely aware of what the Kennedys were doing, and the paths their lives were taking. The gap between our families widened ever more: Jacqueline becoming more wealthy and influential, while my parents became poorer, but, partially because of their strong faith, more content.
The fear I dreaded when I was younger finally came to pass: my Mom was diagnosed with cancer, and given a 1-year prognosis. Our family was devastated once again. She was the most health-conscious of all of us, and we simply couldn't grasp or accept that my Mother would be gone by her 64th year. It all seemed so unfair. She was just too young to die.
At roughly the same time, we learned the sad news that Jacqueline Kennedy had also been diagnosed with cancer. In remembering my feelings about their similarity, I read a bit more about Jacqueline, and found this fact that absolutely floored me:
My Mother and Jacqueline were born in the same year, in the same month, and on the same day: July 28th, 1929.
When the end finally came for them, my Mom ended up living a few months more, but they both died of cancer at 64 in 1994.
These two women, from completely different backgrounds and circumstances, were born, faced their greatest tragedies, and their deaths almost simultaneously, but all of the money, influence, and the best medical help the world had to offer couldn't afford Jacqueline even the few more months of life my Mom had been given.
Again, the misfortune of the Kennedys offered me strange solace: My Mom was indeed too young to die, but even the rich and powerful couldn’t control when their time would come.
We can do all the right things, work hard to take care of ourselves, pray for God's grace, and even be born into great privilege, but our time will come when it does, and we will have no choice but to go.
Steven J. Scott
November 17, 2013
Hollywood, CA
Fritos!
One of the most exciting aspects of our family's move from Escondido to Palm Desert long ago was that my Uncle Del had gotten my Dad a job with his company, Frito-Lay, as a fellow deliveryman. The main perk of this new job? All the free Frito-Lay products we could eat, including unlimited Fritos. I loved Fritos, but they had always been a rare luxury in our humble home. No more!
At 7 years old, arriving at our new home in Palm Desert, California seemed very exotic and foreign to me. We found ourselves in an isolated housing tract at 42-511 Stephani Circle, in the middle of a vast desert, surrounded by endless acres of sand dunes, date palm groves and intense heat. Our modest new rented home was a classic mid-century modern, complete with a loose white-rock-covered roof, and most magically, a pool shared with a number of other homes circling it: A lighted, kidney-shaped pool that glowed and beckoned on those beautiful desert nights. We couldn't spend enough time in it, playing games and lounging in the styrofoam life preservers. Over time we became a little bored with the pool, and I eventually couldn’t stand the even the sight of Fritos, but the desert retained its magic.
On this Monday while at school in second grade, I was called to the main office. My older brother, Stanley (one of six siblings), was there with a very worried look on his face. He said we needed to go home from school early that day because our parents had asked for us to be sent home as soon as possible. I asked him why, but he didn't know. I could see that he was confused, and not at all the self assured, cocky kid he normally was. There was now a vague worry on his face and in his voice that I had never heard before.
It shook me.
We ended up going home on different busses that day for some reason, but I was the first to arrive at our regular neighborhood bus stop. Much to my surprise, my Dad, Stan Scott Sr., was there waiting for me in our station wagon. Why wasn't he at work? Why was he picking me up in our car when our home was such a short walk away? This all put me on edge. Even at 7, I could sense that something was wrong.
I had sort of a distant relationship with my Dad at that point. Not for any particular reason, but he was a strong young man's-man, and I was a rather shy, effeminate kid who wasn't at all like my rambunctious, 'all-boy' brothers; Stuart, Stanley, and especially my younger brother Ward. As a result, I don't think private time between us was ever really that comfortable for either of us, and with my concern about my brother's odd behavior still lingering, I felt my worries amplify.
"So how was school today" was his determinedly cheerful first line. "Ok," I said. Then silence….
"You know son… something bad has happened to your Mother."
So this was it. My worst childhood fear had been realized: My Mom, Bonnie, had been harmed in some way!
With my worry and unease already built up, I immediately burst into tears. I loved my Mom with everything I had, and couldn't imagine anything bad ever happening to her. She was one of the few people in my life who I knew believed in me and loved me unconditionally. It would destroy me to think of anything bad ever happening to her.
"No son, your Mom's ok, she's fine!" my dad said in mild panic, realizing that he had said exactly the wrong thing. In his awkward way, he had tried to break awful news to me without having to say it directly. He had tried, unsuccessfully, to dance around the subject briefly so he could figure out a way to deliver difficult news, that he had no idea of how to deliver, to his 7-year-old son. In retrospect, I realize that he was doing his best, but it must have been very, very hard for him. Flustered, he finally just said what he had to say; "Son, your Mom's fine, but your little brother has died."
Died? Ward, my 3 year old little brother, Dead?!! I was totally disoriented and confused by this.
"How?" I asked.
"He drowned in our pool."
When Stanley finally got home from school, I stared at him intently as he entered the door. How would he react? He later told me he could see in my silent expression that something was not right. "Ward died," said my 5-year-old little sister, Paula, as she ran up to greet him. She couldn't grasp the gravity of the situation at her young age. My Dad, at his wits' end by this time, came in and told him bluntly, "Your brother Ward has drowned." Stanley was confused as well, and asked, "You mean he's at the hospital? He still has a chance, right?"
"No son, he’s dead." Stanley then uttered a pathetic, tearful and horrifying "no, No, NO!!!" and ran off.
Ward Guy Scott was 3 years old when he drowned. He was very cute, precocious and the most endearing blonde-haired, blue-eyed kid you could ever imagine. He was also a handful.
Ward was always trying to run off the second he got a chance. With six active kids to attend to, it was inevitable that my Mom would occasionally loose track of one of us. Ward had made a quick escape once before into the dunes surrounding our housing tract. We called and searched frantically for him, and luckily found him before the merciless heat of the desert could envelop him.
On morning of the 18th, my Mom needed to run some errands, and placed him with Paula in the back seat of our station wagon. She remembered something she had forgotten in the house, ran quickly to retrieve it, returned to the car, and found that Ward had escaped again. Frantic, she went directly to the pool. She could see nothing in the clear water except for the styrofoam life preserver. That must have been a relief to a woman who regularly trained little kids to swim at an early age to save them from the dangers of drowning (me and my older brothers included). She hadn't gotten around to teaching Ward yet.
She went to the dunes surrounding our house where Ward had escaped to before. She called and searched.
Nothing.
Running back to the house, she passed the pool again, but this time, noticed a small shape nestled tight in a corner at the bottom of the pool: a sight that had been easy to miss from her previous angle…
Ward.
My Mom immediately dove in fully clothed, brought him up, and made a valiant poolside attempt to administer CPR, but it was in vain. It was later speculated that Ward might have been trying to reach for the styrofoam life preserver he loved to play with when he accidentally fell in.
November 19th and 20th
When you're 7, your parents are your unquestioned pillars, your foundation, your towers of strength who will always be there to love and project you. To be made aware of the fragility of life at such a young age, and to see my Mom emotionally destroyed, crying inconsolably for hours, surrounded and comforted by her elders and siblings, was the most shocking thing I have ever witnessed.
I remember passing by her dark room many times just to catch a glimpse of her. I sensed it was not my place to intrude on her grief; that seemed like something best left to the more qualified adults around her. Though I had no idea of what I could do to ease her pain, I still felt worried, concerned and even protective of her. On one passing my Mom looked up from her tears, our eyes met, and I couldn’t help but to run into her arms. We hugged tightly and she cried quietly in my ear, "Oh Steven, I'm so sorry. We all loved him." She was addressing our sadness about Ward, but I was thinking, "Mom, I just care about how you're doing right now."
My Dad, who felt it his duty to be the strong man-of-the-house in this situation, remained stoic. He was devastated as well, but felt he had to put up a brave front for the benefit of his family, and most importantly, for his bereaved wife. When his parents arrived at our house, he hugged his Mother, then collapsed at her feet in grief and sorrow. As shocking as this was for us to see, it suddenly made my Mom stop crying, as she came out of her room, and went to console and hug him. Many years later my father confided that he believed this is what saved them both: his freedom to grieve, and her realization that her family still needed her love and care.
My Mom came from an extremely dysfunctional, broken home, with an emotionally abusive mother who died young of alcoholism. With Ward's death, and with false accusations in the local paper that she had somehow been a negligent mother, she had every excuse to bury her sorrows in drink and depression, but for some miraculous reason, which we have only begun to fully appreciate, she decided… made the choice, to be a stable, cheerful, creative, joyous presence in our young lives. A choice for which we are forever grateful.
Thursday, November 21st
In what must have surely been the saddest funeral anyone there had attended, we held a Mass for Ward at the Sacred Heart Church in Palm Springs. This was our local family church, but one made famous from an earlier visit there by President Kennedy in 1962. We later drove to Coachella, and interred Ward's small casket at the Coachella Valley Cemetery.
Ward's death stands as our family's greatest tragedy. Though we've had good lives, and were brought up in an upbeat, optimistic, love-filled home, it's a tragedy from which we've never fully recovered, even as we mark its 50th anniversary.
Friday, November 22nd
Ward was born in 1960, just before President Kennedy was elected, and died on Monday, November 18th, 1963. That Friday, a rifle was pointed out of a window halfway across the country, three shots were fired, and our beloved president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was dead as well.
The first memory I have of this is when my paternal grandparents arrived for a prayer service at our church. The news of the President's death was on a small black and white TV in the foyer. They stared at the TV in disbelief for a few moments, then my grandma had what must have been a nervous breakdown, crying, "What's happening to the world!" as she crumpled to the floor. My grandpa held her and tried to calm her, but she was inconsolable.
We were a conservative Republican family, but we loved the Kennedys because we were also Catholic. Mrs. Kennedy and my Mom seemed similar to me in my little kid's mind. Both were young, beautiful, charming, motherly and of a similar age as far as I could tell. In fact The President had recently visited Palm Springs, and made a side trip to Palm Desert just so he could visit our Sacred Heart Church to celebrate Mass. I can still remember the excitement of their visit. My Mom took us kids in our station wagon to see the President arrive at the airport. Stanley immediately bolted from the car in his individual quest to see him, leaving the rest of us small kids, and my Mom stranded in the car. It was scorching hot in that mid-day desert, and we were miserable and crying. We never got the see the president, but Stanley climbed to the top of a fence and got a glimpse of him. Though Stanley was in big trouble, he was beaming and proud that he got to see the President. When Mr. Kennedy came to our church, we went in hopes of seeing him there. Again my brother bolted from the rest of the family, and spied some empty seats in the middle of the church. What luck! He made his way past other stunned congregants and sat in the best seat in the house, only to be tapped on the shoulder by one of the many secret service agents suddenly standing around him and told "Son, that's the President's seat. You're going to have to find another one."
My Mom was a talented painter, and though in great emotional pain after Ward’s death, offered to paint childhood portraits for the parents of other children who had also died tragically (a boy who suffocated in an abandoned refrigerator he’d accidentally locked himself into comes to mind). She was so moved and heartbroken by Kennedy's death and the suffering of his family, that she did an oil painting of him shaking hands with our parish priest. We offered it to the Kennedys, but they were apparently so overwhelmed by such gifts and tributes that they politely declined it in a letter. The painting remains a family treasure, and hangs in my brother Stanley's home to this day.
In a very strange way, the Kennedys' misfortune had a comforting side effect for me as a child. When Ward's funeral had come and gone, and we had to re-enter the world, the world was in mourning as well. I remember thinking that I just couldn't take it if I saw other people laughing and enjoying themselves while my family was suffering, and I never did.
My little brother, Ward, and President Kennedy lost their lives within days of each other. Our families were from different worlds, but were bound for life in our hearts because of our shared tragedies.
As the years passed, I was vaguely aware of what the Kennedys were doing, and the paths their lives were taking. The gap between our families widened ever more: Jacqueline becoming more wealthy and influential, while my parents became poorer, but, partially because of their strong faith, more content.
The fear I dreaded when I was younger finally came to pass: my Mom was diagnosed with cancer, and given a 1-year prognosis. Our family was devastated once again. She was the most health-conscious of all of us, and we simply couldn't grasp or accept that my Mother would be gone by her 64th year. It all seemed so unfair. She was just too young to die.
At roughly the same time, we learned the sad news that Jacqueline Kennedy had also been diagnosed with cancer. In remembering my feelings about their similarity, I read a bit more about Jacqueline, and found this fact that absolutely floored me:
My Mother and Jacqueline were born in the same year, in the same month, and on the same day: July 28th, 1929.
When the end finally came for them, my Mom ended up living a few months more, but they both died of cancer at 64 in 1994.
These two women, from completely different backgrounds and circumstances, were born, faced their greatest tragedies, and their deaths almost simultaneously, but all of the money, influence, and the best medical help the world had to offer couldn't afford Jacqueline even the few more months of life my Mom had been given.
Again, the misfortune of the Kennedys offered me strange solace: My Mom was indeed too young to die, but even the rich and powerful couldn’t control when their time would come.
We can do all the right things, work hard to take care of ourselves, pray for God's grace, and even be born into great privilege, but our time will come when it does, and we will have no choice but to go.
Steven J. Scott
November 17, 2013
Hollywood, CA
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