Sunday afternoon in Louisville, Kentucky. We had been to church, returned, eaten a lazy lunch, probably fried chicken, green beans and mashed potatoes with gravy, and were in the living room listening to the classical music of Paul Whiteman. Dad was in his stuffed chair reading the newspaper, Mother was in her rocking chair, the one I still have in my living room today, she was crocheting, and my sister, Eunice, who was 13 years old was reading a Nancy Drew book. I was 7 years old and lying on the carpet coloring a book with crayons, lying beside my 10-month old puppy, a Scottish Terrier named Freddy.
Suddenly the music stopped and an announcer broke in with “Ladies and gentlemen we interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special news bulletin . . .” Then he proceeded to say something about Japanese airplanes and Hawaii. Then the music resumed. My dad sat forward in his chair, his newspaper crumpled in his hands staring into another world. My mother had ceased her crocheting and her eyes were closed and her face was slightly bowed. She was praying. I got up and walked to my dad and asked what had happened and he said something about “war”. I asked him what “war” was. The music stopped again and again the voice interrupted with more news about Hawaii. My dad said “Hush, listen . . .”
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