A Day That Will Live in Infamy

Grandma was on the phone, the new fangled phone that no one else on the neighborhood owned.  She was adjusting her hat, getting ready to go out somewhere with someone, when she heard the news.

Her President declared WAR.  She wanted to serve but her parents begged her not to go; her brother had been conscripted and they were terrified of losing both their kids.  She caved, didn't become a WAC, and regretted it for the rest of her life.

I was walking across the hall between classes when the rumor mill reached me.  By the time I got to Mr. Quinlan's math class, the Principal was on the loudspeaker, announcing that our President had been shot and killed.   

School let out early.  Grandma was crying as she drove us home.  She told us that we would remember where we were when we heard the news.  She was right.

I was watching tv with TBG on October 7th, the day Hamas began to exterminate the Jews.  That's the organzation's stated purpose.  They paraglided and drove tanks and raped and murdered and beheaded and captured.  

I know where I was then, and I know where I am, now.

It's happening far away, yet it feels very close to hand.  As my neighbors decorate with a lighted creche and inflatable Santas and snowmen, I'm debating putting my electric menorah in the window.  It's something I do every year.  This time, though, I'm more than a little nervous about advertising that we're celebrating the holiday.

Days that will live in infamy.  We've had many too many of them.