"Yesterday, December 7th, 1941 -- a date that will live in infamy..." --FDR

Or maybe just a date that sometimes flutters across the consciousness of America whenever the latest movie depicting the attack on Pearl Harbor comes out, and even then, the headlining actors are more memorable than the actual date.  I dug out my "Remember Pearl Harbor" pin, which is my favorite because it has an actual pearl in stead of the word pearl on the pin.  I pinned it on, and no one noticed.  It's frustrating.  Unless you're the History Channel or Turner Classic Movies, the day just slides right by with absolutely no notice.

I get upset, and I don't really know why, because I shouldn't expect any different.  I mean, it's not this generation's cause, and all those who remember are dying.  My grandfather was there, and he was an active member of the Pearl Harbor Survivor's.  Now their sons and daughters are taking over, but it's petering out altogether.  I don't expect people to know that army bases, like Fort Benning, were also attacked, not just the naval ships.  I don't expect them to know about both waves, and how the island was completely cut off from the main land out of fear, or how the people were half starving and the army lived off of pineapples in pineapple plantation.

I just wish they...remembered.  Though, I completely less 9/11 and the anniversary of Katrina pass by without acknowledgement.  It's not that I belittle their experiences...they just weren't mine.  Yes, I was alive for both, but I feel completely removed.  Even living in New Orleans, I felt removed from Katrina.  It wasn't my tragedy, and I can't put those shoes on.  However, I have a little Hawaiian dust that's nearly seventy years old on my shoes.

My grandfather died when I was eight.  Only eight.  I remember how much he loved me, though.  One thing he never talked about was the war.  A church member asked him to talk about it while he recorded it on video, which he did before he died.  To my knowledge, it was the only time he talked about it.  I watched the video, and my heart was torn in two.  That wasn't just a man on a TV.  That was MY grandfather.  He watched the skies rain down fire for two hours.  He was so close to his attackers that he could see their mustaches.  He lived illegally off of pineapples from a plantation because he was dropped there with the rest of his unit, and told that someone would return for them.  But no one did.  Not for a long time.

Maybe that's it.  Maybe it's the personal connection.  Even still, though, I know plenty of people whose whole worlds were changed by Katrina.  Is it because I walked in expecting that?  I never expected to be so moved by my grandfather's story, so when I was, it floored me.  Maybe because I loved him so much before I was aware.  I love my friends who survived Katrina, but they were already survivors in my eyes.  My grandfather wasn't until after he died.  Then again, maybe because no else has forgotten Katrina, I don't get offended, as I do with Pearl Harbor.

In Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South, Margaret Hale befriends those beneath her class in a mill-town in late nineteenth century northern England.  The inner city is horrid and crowded.  But as she makes friends, her opinion changes of the town.  At one point, she rushes to the rough side of town, running late for a visit with one of her new friends.

"As she went along the crowded narrow streets, she felt how much of interest they had gained by the simple fact of her having learnt to care for a dweller in them."

I guess that's why no one cares about Pearl Harbor survivors anymore.  They just don't know any.  I suppose I'm the last guard.

"Santa Claus has the right idea: visit people once a year." --Victor Borge

I was thoroughly traumatized as a child.  For some reason, I have always been afraid of people dressing up as other people/things.  For example, when we first moved to Pinson, Alabama, a Little Caesar's Pizza opened up on the same strip as our grocery store.  One day, my mother took me on what should have been a boring and mundaine grocery run, and it turned into one of the most traumatic events of my life.  As part of their grand opening, they hired someone to dress up in a Little Caesar's mascot costume thing (like Mickey Mouse but Little Caesar), and pass out pizza coupons at the nearby grocery store, namely the grocery store we went to most often.  And then, horror of horrors, he tried to touch me!  Not in a creepy way, just in a "Hey there little kid who normally likes giant characters" kind of way.  But I spazzed.  Mom said that for weeks after when we would get close to Food Giant, I would say, "No Caesar Man?"  And she would say, "No Caesar Man," and pray that she was right. 

Therefore, it should be obvious that I didn't like Santa.  But Momma had to have her Santa picture every year.  The results are hysterical.

That was my first Santa picture.  I look so pleased.  Look, they even tried to get me to hold a teddy bear to distract me.  Didn't work out.  Mind you, I was nearly a year old (my birthday isn't long after Christmas), so I knew that he was a creeper.

That's my mom trying to hold me down.  You can see her black hair if you look closely.  Notice how I tried to run away from Santa, yet she determinedly held me down.  I was nearly two and that was only a few months before the "No Caesar Man" incident.

Nearly three-years-old and I'm still not happy, though, not screaming.  The truly traumatic part came after this picture.  You see, at our church, Mr. Jim was the one who always dressed up every year as Santa (in fact, that's him in the picture).  He loved kids, he was the right size (tall but portly), and he had the costume.  So, we would have a Santa photo night at church.  That was the first year that I really understood, though, that Santa would come into my house.  So, for a few days after the photo, I would periodically panic about Santa coming into the house.  My mom PROMISED me he wouldn't come when I was awake, and he wouldn't bother me while I was asleep, so I never had to look at him.  She also promised that he would only come on Christmas Eve while I was asleep.  That was the year, though, that Mr. Jim started spending his Christmas Eve paying visits as Santa at the homes of various church members with children.  Most parents and children found this delightful--the children because they got a surprise from Santa, and the parents because the surprise was from a friend they could trust.  Mother said her heart dropped when he showed up on our doorstep.  I.  Flipped.  Out.  Santa had come while I was awake!  And it wasn't even bedtime yet!  Fortunately Mr. Jim had the good sense to drop the charade and took off his hat and beard to show me that it was just him. I calmed down appropriately as he told me that he was just one of Santa's helpers, and dressed up to pass out messages from Santa to all of the kids in Pinson.  He was just one man, after all, and couldn't be everywhere at once.  I calmed down, gave him a hug, and then clung to my mother after he left.  I think she had to lay down in my bed with me until I fell asleep that year.

Almost four here, and we finally got a smile.  I knew it was Mr. Jim, though I was sworn to secrecy, so I didn't spazz.  To my knowledge, that is the best Santa picture of me ever.  I can still remember that year being at preschool and not wanting my picture made.  At my preschool, every year they would take us into the small auditorium (my preschool was at a large church), and they fed us donuts and milk while we waited for our turn to get a picture with Santa.  After you got a picture with Santa, they gave you a candy cane for being such a good boy or girl (they really wanted us to be hyper, didn't they?).  I can remember mom and I discussing the fact that I didn't have to get my picture made with Santa, and that she wouldn't be sad if I didn't.  I can also remember waffling, because I wanted to be like the other kids and come back with a candy cane (even though I didn't like peppermint then).  I can remember getting in and out of line a half-dozen times.  I don't remember what I actually did in the end, though.

Oh childhood Christmas memories.  How traumatic.

"We do not quit playing because we grow old, we gorw old because we quit playing." --Oliver Wendell Holmes

This has to be the saddest thing I've seen all week. The little girl inside of me that remembers seeing the first Toy Story in theaters just wanted to ball when she saw this poor abandoned Woody on the balcony of my apartment this morning. It just feels like Andy forgot him and is off somewhere playing with Buzz Lightyear. I have a feeling my little neighbor left him there and will claim him today, but it still hurts my heart. I really need to see the new one.

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