The year was 1961. John Kennedy had just been elected president. I was twelve years old. The month was June. It was the first Saturday of the month. School would let out for the summer in just a few days. I walked to Church, carrying my red cassock, We lived only a few blocks from the Church which was located in a very residential neighborhood in the Philadelphia suburbs. Ours was a very middle class to lower middle class neighborhood. Crime was practically non existent. Little did I know that this would be the worst day in my entire life. I was an altar boy scheduled to serve the eight o'clock Mass. As myself and the other altar boy who was fourteen and two years ahead of me in school gave the Latin responses to Father K., we had no idea what lay ahead of us. After Mass, as we were cleaning up the wine and water cruets and taking off our cassocks, the associate pastor at our Church appeared in the sacristy. Father D. told Father K. that he needed to talk to both of us servers.