Pearl Harbor Day

My grandfather, Hugh Morgan Weaver was born in the landlocked state of Kansas, but he joined the Navy at a young age to see the world and make it his career.

Hugh was at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, exactly 70 years ago today. He had just turned 22. Growing up I pressed him a few times what it was like to be there, but he would never share anything. I have heard this dignified quiet was somewhat common among Pearl Harbor veterans, who lost so many of their friends on that day of infamy.

Once I asked him why he didn’t wear a wedding ring. He told me a story of a fellow sailor losing his finger after catching his ring jumping over a railing. I like to think the story was from that day at Pearl Harbor, but I’ll never know.

Grandpa Hugh died in 1999, and I went to Florida for his funeral. After the graveside service, my mom and I drove down to Hillsboro Beach where we had lived on the ocean. We split up and each spent some time alone walking the beach reflecting on his life. It was the best possible tribute — Hugh loved the sea from his Navy days.

After my mom and I met up on the beach we were watching the surf and saw something amazing: 40 or 50 small silvery fish jumped out of the waves into the air. Then it happened again, then again. What was going on? Then we saw the enormous shadows of larger fish giving chase — it was feeding time. We had lived on that very beach for several years and we’d never seen a scene like that. With Hugh on our minds we chalked it up to the sea putting on one last tribute to my Navy grandfather.

I think about my Grandpa Hugh every December 7. He married into our family later in life, so he’s not my genetic reason for being here. But his attitudes of respect and hard work earned through his WWII experiences certainly rubbed off on me. I’m glad he made it through the very first Pearl Harbor Day to be my grandfather.