Today is December 7. In 1941 it was a date that would live in infamy. Before Alzheimer's took away my mom's memory, every December 7 she would tell us about listening to President Roosevelt's speech on the radio about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, the U.S. declaration of war on Japan, her brother's World War II service in the Navy, how her mom went to her room every night after dinner and prayed the Rosary for her son's safety, planting victory gardens, the rationing of food, metal, paper, tires for the Allied cause, the death of a sailor from the tiny town of Danvers, Illinois in that attack, how a nation came together. When my parents finally got a garage door keypad, their code was 4197. 41, the year of Pearl Harbor. 97, the year of their youngest grandchild's birth.
T's dad was 17 years old in 1941 living in the tiny town of Bloomdale, Ohio. He and some friends listened to FDR's speech on the radio and were ready right then and there to go fight the "Japs." It didn't happen. Mom told him he had to turn 18 and finish high school before he could serve. He graduated in June 1942 and left shortly after for his Naval aviator training. He served on the island of Espiritu Santo in the Pacific.
We traveled to Hawaii in 2012 and visited Pearl Harbor. We weren't there on December 7 but regardless of when you step onto the Arizona Memorial, you feel the magnitude of this event and reverence for those who died. Droplets of oil still rise to the surface of Pearl Harbor everyday. Pearl Harbor survivors and others call the ascending droplets "Black Tears" or "Tears of the Arizona."
According to the US Department of Veterans Affairs statistics, approximately 167,000 of the 16 million Americans who serve in World War II are alive in 2022.
My parents and grandparents told similar histories (story is to weak of a word.) My father was in the Army at the very end of the war, a couple of his uncles were injured in Europe.
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