Are any place settings left?
Tim GULLA LEDGER STAFF WRITER

It's Dec. 7 and I feel regret.

This date on the calendar has been a constant reminder, at least for the past five years, of how I failed to tell a story that should have been told.

My failure didn't stem from negligence or bad intent. The stars just never aligned. The timing just never worked out.

And then it was too late. The story should have centered on a man named Joe, who along with a group of others from the same area had all joined the U.S. Navy after high school graduation. This bunch of 18- and 19-yearolds from Northeastern Pennsylvania found themselves stationed at a place few had ever heard of at the time - Pearl Harbor.

That they survived the Japanese attack remembered on this day wasn't the story I had in my mind. It was how they lived afterwards.

Never far from his mind, Joe kept a bookcase of Pearl Harbor memorabilia, books and copies of Hawaiian newspapers he brought home from the war. Each year, I was told, Joe and his comrades reunited on Dec. 7, to have dinner, reminisce, swap stories, and catch up.

As the years went by, the number of dinner place settings got smaller and smaller as the Pearl Harbor veterans succumbed to the inevitable.

When I finally committed the time to research the story, fate had something else in store.

Joe's son was a college friend and Joe knew me well in my younger years. I admittedly spent far too many hours in his basement, playing cards, shooting pool, and enjoying the occasional cool, refreshing beverage.

The last time I spoke with him, Joe no longer could remember my name.

Age had been taking his memory.

Having been out of contact the last few years, I'm sorry to say I'm not sure if there are any place settings left at Joe's table today. I hope there still are. I'm ashamed to say that a quick check of the Internet while writing this column showed me Joe's wife had passed unexpectedly in March.

How do you send condolences so long after such an event? I should have known.

While I'm a newcomer to Cherokee County, I doubt it resides in a vacuum. I'm sure its ranks of servicemen and women who came back from WWII, Korea and Vietnam are thinning every year.

It's a fact of life. We get older. We die. And each time that happens, many great stories are lost.

Perhaps there's a "Joe" here in Cherokee County.

Perhaps he helped storm the beaches of Normandy or dropped bombs on Berlin.

Perhaps he helped capture Iwo Jima or witnessed the aftermath of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Perhaps he endured the bitter cold of the Ardennes Forest or Aleutian Islands.

As a WWII history and military aviation buff, I often reflect on what it would have been like to be placed in their shoes, bracing for the shockwaves from flak or hunkered down in a foxhole, not knowing which moment would be your last.

I wonder how you can find the strength to march forward while blocking the pain and anguish of seeing friends fall beside you. I wonder how such experiences change you as a person, how they impact your life and views.

I wonder what kind of man I would have been in those situations.

In Joe's case, I know he came home from the war to become a wonderful father, a wonderful husband, a wonderful grandfather and his kind heart never wavered.

Perhaps it's not too late.

Maybe I've already met Cherokee County's version of Joe. I bumped into a man who served four years during World War II in multiple theaters of combat. Our brief meeting and conversation was fascinating from the onset.

I'll be talking again to him soon.

Hopefully, he'll think his tales are worth telling. Hopefully, I won't fail again when a fleeting opportunity presents itself.