‘The V-J Parade of Oklahoma City'

Jim Yokum turned 4 the day the world changed.

That afternoon, he and his mother took a trolley to downtown Oklahoma City to buy him a birthday present at the John A. Brown store on Main Street. When they walked in, everything was normal.

When they walked out, the city was alive with jubilant chaos.

"Strangers were hugging,” said Yokum, now 66, of Chickasha. "Strangers were kissing. There were trolley horns sounding, bells ringing, people shouting. And I thought it was all for me. ... I just remember strangers walking up to my mother, and she was an attractive woman to begin with, and hugging her and kissing her.

"I thought, ‘My gosh, what a birthday!'”

Aug. 14, 1945, the Japanese formally surrendered to Gen. Douglas MacArthur aboard the USS Missouri, marking an end to hostilities and the official close of World War II.

V-J Day, or Victory Over Japan Day, erupted into a nationwide celebration at once spontaneous and expected.

"That was my birthday, and I was in Times Square” in New York City, said Mary Beth Burger, 80, of Durant. "It was like New Year's Eve on TV, only more exciting. ... There were a lot of kisses. In fact, one sailor kissed me, and we lost our balance and fell over into a gutter.”

Hazel Owen, 83, of Crescent, recalled similar excitement.

"They had ticker tape coming down out of the windows where offices were throwing stuff down,” she said. "It was messy, but it was a celebration, and everybody was just so joyous.”

Owen — who was single, young and living in Indianapolis at the time — put on an orange taffeta dress and rushed to the towering Soldiers' and Sailors' Monument in the heart of that city, where thousands of revelers gathered.

"It had fountains on four sides and water in the basins,” Owen said. "I remember the sailors and the guys around on the streets, they had their girls, and they all jumped in those basins. ... It was quite a night, and it went on and on and on. Everyone was yelling and screaming, and it was quite a melee. It was a wild, wild night.”

At 6 p.m., President Truman took to the radio waves to announce the war's end. Within minutes, the news spread around town.

In a story headlined "City calmly goes nuts at big news,” Oklahoman reporter Ray Park eloquently described what happened next:

"Nobody who saw and felt it will ever forget it — Oklahoma City's reception to the end of the war. There will be nothing to match it in this generation.

"First, there was a heart tug, so poignant it hurt down deep. Then there were tears and prayers of humility offered to Him who had guided loved ones through the terrifying nightmare of history's most cruel war so that they might come home. There were tears for those who won't come home.

"But after the tears and the fearful tenseness came the realization that it was all over. The dam of courage that had held pent-up emotions for nearly four years finally broke. Oklahoma City was engulfed in a flood of hilarious happiness that swept through the streets in a wild torrent of joyful humanity.”

Office workers hurled paper from their windows or leaned outside to pound on tin pans. Saloon owners, who had agreed to close for 48 hours after the official declaration, shut down or distributed a final round on the house.

"All downtown theaters closed at 6:30 p.m.,” Park reported, "when customers started snake dances in the aisles and began climbing over seats. ... Then all of Oklahoma City moved downtown. Take all of your wedding charivaris with their clattering tin cans and showers of rice — your midways of the most gaudy carnivals — your old-time circus parade — your most rowdy New Year's Eve — mix them all together for one glorious moment, and you have the V-J parade of Oklahoma City.”

Genny Smith, then a student nurse in Oklahoma City, had to work Aug. 14 and missed that original rush of excitement.

"The next day, we got to be off,” said Smith, 83, who now lives in Oklahoma City. "The celebration was still going on. I remember the streetcars were just crawling. They couldn't go very fast.”

She said the occasion was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

"There was a girl in a convertible,” she said. "And a bunch of sailors undressed her. Ahead of us, a streetcar had been overturned by rioters or what have you, and by that time we were afraid and wanted to go back. ... I remember being quite frightened.”

Emerging from the store, Yokum and his mother found themselves in the heart of the revelry.

Yokum didn't know what to make of it. He was too young to understand the concept of war, and the sacrifices being made by everyone at home and abroad were beyond his experience.

He didn't know what people meant when they talked about rationing, for instance. He only knew to savor each sweet bite of Cracker Jacks or maple syrup because he never knew when he'd taste sugar again.

"I can close my eyes, and I can smell a Hershey bar right now,” Yokum said. "My mom would let me hold it. She would only give me one square at a time, but she would let me hold it, and I could smell it. That smell. That's one of my fondest memories of all time.”

Since his father held down two jobs — one fueling the war effort by helping build C-147 transport planes, the other as a part-time pharmacist — Yokum's family got by better than others.

"One night we bought a half a hog on the black market,” he recalled. "I didn't know that's what it was until I got older, but it was illegal to buy that hog. We wrapped it in a blanket and put it in the back seat of our car. My dad cured it in the basement.”

So the celebration unfolding around him that night didn't hold the same meaning for him as it did for people such as Owen.

"The whole country was behind the troops,” Owen said. "We gave up everything. We gave up sugar and meat. We had meatless Tuesdays. Everything was rationed. But people willingly did it. They bought war bonds. They did everything they could to help provide for the service. ... It was marvelous. Everyone felt like your brother.”

Even so, the ordeal drained everyone. She had two brothers in the military, and worry ate at her family.

"You just never had a peaceful moment,” she said. "The whole time was a tearjerker.”

Aug. 14, the tears turned to cheers, at least for most. The war was over. At last.