Today is Pearl Harbor Day, one of several holidays that are in the Christmas season, but not of it, so to speak. I had originally intended to have a post today on the observance, but my time got eaten up in one of the idiotic arguments and discussions that seem to infest this house constantly. I’ve got to get moved out, and it’s increasingly looking like the sooner the better.
So, what about Pearl Harbor? The surprise Japanese attack on the U. S. Naval base sixty-eight years ago was the Nine Eleven of my parents’ generation, and was still an open wound when I was growing up. My best friends’ father (along about first grade or so) was partially deaf, and lived as a result in a somewhat isolated world socially; he had been on board one of the ships attacked that day and his deafness was a result. Virtually any adult at that time could tell you exactly where he or she was when the news of the attack came. It must have cast a deep shadow over the Christmas festivities of that year.
I'd intended to say something I hoped would be interesting about the day, but it’s cold and I’m exhausted, and I can’t come up with anything.
Instead of mulling over the contrast between an act of war in a season of peace, I suggest reading this repost of a piece on the authorship of “A Visit from St. Nicholas” at Millard Fillmore's Bathtub. It’s more in keeping with the season anyway.
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