As the snow flurries fly, I’m thinking about Hawaii, and about the survivors who have gathered there, perhaps for the last time.

They’re old now, but 65 years ago today, most were the same age as my oldest child (now a freshman at UT). They’ve gathered today — as they do on this date every five years — not to enjoy the sun, the sand or bikinis, but to remember the most awful day they ever knew: a beautiful sunny morning in Hawaii, ripped apart in the early morning hours by the Japanese surprise attack.

A day when 2,390 of their mostly teenage and young-twenties colleagues died.

I remember still how my maternal grandfather reacted to this anniversary. Days shy of his 38th birthday at the time, with toddlers at home (his first three children were killed in an accident before the other six were born), he was far from Pearl Harbor. Nonetheless, he remembered the day with solemn reserve for the rest of his days.

As is my habit, I will watch the movie again. It’s my birthday treat (yes, ha ha, I was born on the day that will live in infamy), though likely rather late this evening after a Christmas party and the ORHS band concert.

While I watch, I’ll enjoy a special treat courtesy of Realtorchick… seems fitting for a woman of my vintage.