(Mitsubishi A6M Zero-sen and moth.)

So, Annook writes to Spike and me last night, wondering if Big Mama could benefit from having a cat. Apparently she thinks that would address some of the engagement issues that are cropping up as the Turner Classic Movie Channel increasingly becomes the mainstream of her cognitive reality. She is like a moth, flying toward a light, I think.

Graceful, still delicate, but not in controlled flight any more.

I wrote her back, saying I didn’t have a problem with pet ownership, per se, but that the problem is that Big Mama is drifting off into the great space-time continuum, and this is a one-way journey with no return. Having another living being responsible on her doesn’t seem to me to be a constructive answer, but who knows.

Annook also visited Raven, who was being treated to a bathroom break, and then promptly went to sleep in his narrow hospital bed. She considers him to be gone already, and I am not sure I disagree with her.

Big Mama’s drift has made it difficult to do much holiday planning. Maybe I should just suck it up and go for Christmas and chalk it up to being maybe the last one I spend with her.

That is what I was thinking, out loud, at Willow last night. Old Jim and John-with-an-H were on my flanks, and Short Hair Mike showed up to provide an update on his life and times. He is switching company shortly- creative differences with management, I gathered, as he recounted the events that led up to the decision, I got a touch of vertigo.

There is a fair amount of that going around these days.

“So, is your buddy Mac going to be here tomorrow?”

“What, for Pearl Harbor Day?” I asked. “I don’t think so. Mac did not get to Pearl until February of 1942, about eight weeks after the attack. The 70th anniversary we are looking to celebrate is in June, the Battle of Midway.”

“Not many veterans left,” said Jim.

“Yeah, I heard they are going to disband the Pearl Harbor Surivors organization. There are not enough vets left to staff the organization. In fact, I bet the surivors number just about the same as the number of people killed in the attack.”

John-with screwed up his brows in concentration. “That would be right around 2,500 left, correct?”

“Yep,” I said. “Exactly a balance between those who we taken and those who live.”

“Amazin’,” said Short Hair Mike, signaling Tinker Bell for another lager. “The world goes on, don’t it.”

“It does indeed,” I said. “There will be survivors at the Arizona memorial for another few years, but the organization ceases to exist at the end of the month.”

Jim looked contemplatively at the long-necked Budweiser on the Willow coaster in front of him. “I remember when the last Civil War vet died in the ‘50s. That is when the Grand Army of the Republic ceased to exist.”

“In their day, the GAR had nearly a half-million members,” I said. “You can still see the old chapter houses in little towns in Ohio and Pennsylvania if you know what you are looking for. There is a big fancy one in downtown Detroit. Been abandoned for years,” I said and polished off my happy hour white. “I gotta go. Early morning tomorrow.”

“Got any plans for seven o’clock when the attack happened?”

I shrugged. “12:55 Eastern Standard Time is the anniversary,” I said. “I will try to remember. But you know how drifty things can get.”

I got off my stool shook hands around, and walked out of Willow and into the mist of the early nightfall. “Lest we forget,” I thought, waiting for the traffic to thin on Fairfax Drive. “Lest we forget,” I murmured and stepped off into the darkness.

(Grand Army of the Republic Chapter Hall, Detroit. Photo Socotra.)

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com