We were driving home, having spent the day enjoying a belated Thanksgiving holiday in Tulsa with my oldest brother, Robert, and his family.  The tires on Dad’s 1935 Dodge droned in harmony with its engine as it moved along at the stately, safe, 50 miles an hour Dad always chose.  Other than those sounds there was a heavy stillness in the car.  Dad, who often sang when he had nothing to say, sat silent, both hands clutching the wheel; his eyes locked onto the patch of dim light created by the car's headlights.  Mother sat quietly alongside him.

I sat in the back seat, wondering.  "Cinnamon," my little dog, seemed to sense weight in the moment.  She sat curled up in my lap.  Was she seeking, or trying to give, reassurance?  I did not know, but her warmth was comforting to me, as I suppose my touch was to her.

A full moon brightened the empty pastureland.  Twenty-eight days ago, during the previous full moon, the Osage Hills of Northeastern Oklahoma would have been beautifully inspiring.  Tonight their empty stillness was ominous.  I did not understand why but I sensed that my world had been abruptly and forever changed.  Somewhere along the road after many minutes of heavy silence, Mother spoke.

"The moon is shining down on a troubled world tonight,” she said to Dad, or maybe just to herself.

Her words were leaden.  They sank heavily into me.  Without knowing why I felt fear; the dreadful fear of the unknown.  A wraith was stalking.  I could feel it.  I don’t remember if Dad answered.  If he did it was brief.  All I remember of that drive from Tulsa to Caney were Mother’s comment and the shroud of silence that followed her words while Dad drove at his usual steady gait towards home.

It was December 7, 1941.

December 7 1941 is, of course, the day on which the Japanese Empire carried out a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor Hawaii.  Ask any American 70 years old or older always associates the two words "Pearl Harbor" with that attack.