It’s automatic. It’s visceral. Every December 7th, I remember, as do most Americans of my generation–born when World War Two swept in and seized America by the throat–that fateful Sunday morning in 1941 when the world burst into flames. No, I wasn’t there, but throughout my childhood in the 1940s, we learned at home, in school, in the neighborhood about the stealthy Japanese attack on our naval base in the Hawaiian Islands, that dreadful surprise that President Franklin D. Roosevelt called “… a day which will live in infamy.” On the radio, we heard the song, “Let’s Remember Pearl Harbor” again and again. And we followed the course of the war waiting for husbands, fathers, uncles, brothers, and friends to come home. Over the decades, the emotions surrounding the “sneak attack” and the sorrow over the losses have faded, but have not disappeared entirely. Few still remember, but mention December 7 to anyone over 70 and you are sure to get a knowing response, “Yes, Pearl Harbor Day.” They know the story.

I have always felt bound to commemorate this day, to honor the sacrifice of those who suffered its grim ordeal. It has symbolized for me the terrible destruction and death unleashed on a sleeping nation and the courage, faith, and resilience of the American people that led to ultimate victory over the aggression and brutal militarism of authoritarian powers across the world, not just in the Pacific.

I don’t think it is necessary to go beyond what I have mentioned here. This brief remembrance is enough, for me, at any rate. There are more details in one of my earlier posts, if you are interested.

Remember Pearl Harbor!