Good Morning Gentle Readers,
Hadn't really planned to do a Pearl Harbor piece this morning, but it had been on my mind since my father talked about it on Thanksgiving.
At twelve years old, Dad was The Boy's age when the torpedo bombs fell that balmy Sunday morning in the Pacific. In the simplest terms, he talked of gathering around the Zenith table radio after church with his parents, his brother, and his great uncle, who incessantly paced the room as the news sporadically filtered in. Apparently, the recollection of his own service in The War To End All Wars was all too fresh in his mind. The conversation was somber, subdued. Monday morning my Grandfather was turned back by the recruiter. Too old for service and he had a family.
It was a fearful time and for several years both my parents lived with the ever present dread that sunrise would bring the unfurling of the Rising Sun or the Nazi flag over the capital.
Twenty years later, Grandpa sent me home with the radio. Though just an old radio, it was a couple steps up from the tinny plastic Japanese transistor radio that always had a dead battery. It whined and hummed in a way that evokes other eras in vintage movies. There was static at the edge of each channel, but it brought the Angel games with Don Wells patter to my bedroom most summer nights.
When it gave up the ghost, replacing burnt out tubes was beyond my meager boyhood budget and eventually it ended up as a backyard prop for games of Army until the rain dissolved the case into pulp and rusted the innards.
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