When I was young and heard adults talking about where they were when a major historical event occurred — Pearl Harbor, JFK’s assassination, the Moon Landing  — I didn’t quite understand the significance. Having now lived through several notable moments in history myself — Nixon’s resignation, Reagan’s being shot, the Space Shuttle Challenger explosion, September 11th — I have a better appreciation for that impulse. 

When the BIG events happen, time freezes momentarily. You may not remember what you had for breakfast yesterday, but you darn well remember where you were and what you were doing when the world shifted. I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation for our psychological reaction to such events. All I know is that when you reflect on them — when you mark anniversaries of them, for instance — there’s a sense of being transported back to that moment. It all feels very real — not just a glimmer or a vague recollection. 

So, yes, I can tell you exactly where I was one year ago today, when I learned that President Trump had been shot: I was in my Happy Place. 

Regular readers may recall my occasional (okay, frequent) reference to the neighborhood pool I belong to as my Happy Place. Truthfully, any place that involves water and sunshine qualifies — out on a lake, at the seashore, etc. — but this particular pool has the added benefit of being populated by friends with whom I enjoy spending my summer weekend days, relaxing, socializing, not really worrying about what’s going on in the news or geo-politics. Even news and politics junkies like myself need that break to recharge. 

On this particular Saturday, there’d been a bit of commotion as one of my friends had taken a spill on the concrete of the pool deck and conked her head. She was mostly alright, but there was some blood, and it was awfully hot out that afternoon, and the paramedics were called to be on the safe side. We’d just gotten done tending to her and ensuring that she was safely heading home. I’d gotten back into the pool to enjoy the rest of the late-afternoon sun and was lounging in my “Big Joe” flotation device. (If you’ve not checked these out — they’re one of the best pool inventions ever, in my opinion.) 

The Cardinals were playing a double-header against the Cubs that day, and the second game had just started and was playing on the TV mounted on the clubhouse wall at the pool. I wasn’t paying close attention to that, but friends were, and suddenly, I heard one of them say, “Trump was shot.” It wasn’t an exclamation — it was a matter-of-fact observation. So matter-of-fact that it didn’t really register with me, until he turned to me and said, “Susie, Trump just got shot.” 

Now, I know this didn’t actually happen like this — I’m not a deity. But the sensation I had in that moment was that I sprang up out of the Big Joe and practically ran across the top of the water to the end of the pool where my stuff was and hopped out to run to my phone. Again, it was hot and the sun was still bright and I was dripping wet from the pool, so it was hard to get the phone to load and pull up Slack so I could check in — but, not surprisingly, I was able to verify that my colleagues here at RedState were already on it, ensuring that we covered the story quickly and accurately. 

I set my phone down and hurried over to the TV to watch the live coverage — at that point, he hadn’t stood up yet. We didn’t know if he was okay. We didn’t know much of anything. I remember standing there with my hands on top of my head, my feet burning a bit on the hot concrete. But I was transfixed. I watched until we saw him stand up, saw the blood streak across his face, saw the iconic moment when he raised his fist up and yelled, “FIGHT!” 

Nick Arama had the breaking story:

It was hard to hear the television commentary and a bit hard to see the screen in the late afternoon sunlight, so I eventually gave up and returned to the pool, but, understandably, that was all anyone could talk about. Once the initial shock and adrenaline rush started to wear off, I started thinking about the implications…and the what-ifs. 

I won’t lie — as certain as I was that I would vote for him in November, as I had in 2020, I was still somewhat ambivalent about his candidacy. Not because I didn’t largely agree with his agenda, but because I still had grave concerns as to whether he could win. And that wasn’t because Joe Biden presented a formidable foe — we’d already witnessed that disaster of a debate on June 27 — but because I, like many, was still unsettled by what happened in 2020 and, given all that had transpired since Trump first announced his candidacy in 2015, the myriad ways in which his opponents had endeavored to stop him, I was genuinely worried about what might happen in November. 

But one thing solidified for me that evening: I wanted him to win more than I’d ever wanted a presidential candidate to win. And there was the inescapable sense that what had transpired on that field in Butler, Pennsylvania, had transformed an already larger-than-life figure into a mythical one. 

There was also the sorrow at learning that Corey Comperatore had been killed in the attempt, and that two other men had been struck and seriously injured. 

And in the days that followed, there were endless questions begging for answers:

1. Who was this kid…Thomas Matthew Crooks?
2. What on earth prompted him to do this? 
3. Who else might have been involved?
4. Who on God’s green earth thought it wasn’t necessary to include the AGR building in the security perimeter and/or post guards at its access points/on its roof?