Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Yesterday was the sixty-seventh anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. How many people are alive who remember it? I’m sure there are many, but fewer and fewer as the years go by. I was only six months old, so I can’t attest to the attack firsthand. Regardless, I try to remember it for another reason.

My stepfather, Ollie, who enlisted for World War II in his middle thirties, died on Pearl Harbor Day in 1994. I don’t know if the Pearl Harbor attack spurred his enlistment or not. We never discussed it. But I’ve always thought it was ironic that he died on this day. He was 87.

I thought of Ollie yesterday while I was writing about snow people. And I thought about how much he added to the fabric of my adult life. He and my mother, who had been divorced an incredibly long time, married in their middle years and were devoted to each other. Ollie especially was devoted to her. If she ordered whitefish from the menu on a restaurant, he would too. If she wanted to visit Egypt, he agreed. And if she said purple was no longer a color, he would have struck it from the rainbow.

I adored him. Because of his devotion to her, I could go about my own business, not worrying because my Mother, that most social of beings, was no longer alone. That she had someone other than me who could care for her. That I didn’t have to be there one hundred percent of the time. It was a blessing for an only child. Especially one who craved time alone, when her Mother craved time with others.

So even if I’m a day late, here’s to you Ollie. You made my life easier for so many years, not only by being there for my Mother but also for being there for me.