to remember always

For the first time since 9/11, I had to work an 8 hour day on this date. In some ways, I was glad for the distraction; but I also feel pretty conflicted about that. If you scroll back through my blogs, you will find other 9/11 posts, and you will see that I, like many, deeply believe that sharing stories, thoughts, feelings, and emotions from that day in 2001, and the days and weeks, even months afterward is not only helpful for healing, but imperative for honoring and remembering the heros, the victims, their families and their friends. One of my dearest friends approached me last year with an idea for compiling such stories, so that we can continue to teach our children about the many facets of 9/11/01 and the attacks on the United States. Throughout the day today, as she could muster the strength and the words, she posted her story of that day. With her permission, and with only very minor editing, those posts follow, along with a comment from a friend of hers. Never, never can we forget.

Allie's story:

I am reflecting on my thoughts and emotions on this day, 12 years ago. Getting ready to attend a military funeral for Uncle Dick Mancuso (love that man!). As the day unfolded, the uncertainty, the disbelief, the absolute inability to wrap my brain around it. The color guard and playing of Taps at the burial, everyone in tears, both for Uncle Dick, and for our nation. We need to share these thoughts and emotions with our children. If we do not learn from history, we are doomed to repeat it. Every year, I have a conversation with them, trying to put into words the overwhelming loss of life and security that day, and many more days to come. Never take our freedom for granted, Never fail to whole-heartedly thank a service member, Never become complacent in your patriotism.......NEVER - EVER FORGET!
 

 8:46am, 9/11/01,

Reports on the radio that a small plane apparently ran into the World Trade Center....thinking, Wow, how in the world does that happen?

Go on with prep work at the restaurant, getting ready to leave at 10:00am to join family for Uncle Dick's funeral.......

9:03am, 9/11/01

 Barry, Jr. comes running into the kitchen yelling "we are being attacked, it’s terrorist!!" By that time, news crews on the scene and captured the second plane hitting WTC....."what???? Oh My God! Wait, What???? Was that just a person falling from the building? Oh My God!!!"

We are now all glued to the TV, tears falling down my face, mouths hanging open........

9:37am, 9/11/01
 Reports that a plane has hit the Pentagon, the belief that multiple planes are now "missing", speculation they could be headed for the Capital, the west coast, military bases, etc...all flights ordered to land, no take-offs....."Oh My God, this seriously cannot be happening.....it has to end, right????? Thank God Anthony did not go to school (K) today, everyone is at home getting ready for the funeral......"

9:59am, 9/11/01

 Tower Collapses!!! "Oh My God......do you know how many people work in those buildings???? Thousands!!! Oh My God!!! I have to get home....."

10:03am, 9/11/01

 Reports of a plane crashing in PA..possibly on course for DC ...."Where is Shanksville???? Still multiple planes missing... what is next? Driving home now, have to get to the rest of my family.....I get home, they have no TV on, no radio, they are trying to hold everything together for the funeral....I say, do you know what is happening, that we are under attack??? They have no clue, and tell me they do not want to know.....WHAT???? YOU NEED TO KNOW!!! I tell them some of it, have no idea what they hear......everyone is getting ready to leave for the funeral.....

10:28AM, 9/11/01

 Second Tower has collapsed.....driving to funeral home in Linglestown, [PA] with Aunt Patty, listening to the radio.....planes still missing, all military bases are on high alert......we have to go to Indiantown Gap after the funeral home for burial. How will that work? Will they allow us to proceed with our plans? PRAY, PRAY, PRAY.....Thank God my family is all together and not spread out.....together is the best case scenario....I get a call from Uncle Dick's stepson (whom I have never met or spoken to), who is travelling from DC up for the funeral.....Of course he is running late......he just drove by the pentagon on the highway, there were flames and smoke......traffic is at a standstill....he is continuing on and promised to keep me posted...."

10:50ish, 9/11/01

 Walking into funeral home, experiencing the "normal" emotions of attending a loved one’s funeral, keeping an eye on my little ones, making sure they are handling this new experience okay, heart is racing from anxiety. Wondering what else is happening while I am not in front of the TV or a radio.......take a deep breath......take care of your family......Pray....

11:40ish, 9/11/01

 Leaving funeral home, beautiful tribute to the life of Uncle Dick.....kids are holding up like troopers....get into car, listening to the radio.....not much has changed, multiple planes still missing, military bases on high alert.....call Uncle Dick's stepson, he is finally making good time and looks like he will be able to make it to Indiantown Gap on time for the burial.....we share what news we have heard.....express our shock and disbelief.....try to comfort each other. Will we be safe at Indiantown Gap? Of course we will; the Gap is very, very small compared to other possible "targets".....or will we? Why am I being arrogant in thinking that nothing this horrific could possibly happen to my family? What makes us so special? No one else woke up today thinking "I am a target"...... The overwhelming knowledge takes over all of my thoughts....At least we will all be together if something should happen......I have Doug; Anthony and Danielle have their Mommy and Daddy.....

12:30ish, 9/11/01

 Standing at the gravesite, Indiantown Gap, full color guard in place.....flag is folded and presented.....The color guard leader shared with us the following: "Please rest assured, we will never forget your loved one because we were chosen to honor our fellow serviceman on this of all days. This day will forever be imprinted in our hearts and minds." Taps playing in the distance......not a dry eye anywhere, including the guard......Many thoughts racing through my mind, many prayers passing through my soul.....Rest In Peace, Uncle Dick....you are truly loved.....

3:30ish, 9/11/01

 Had to go back to work, all of my family and friend stayed at my house to continue the celebration of Uncle Dick's life.....the restaurant is dead, everyone that does come in, wants to sit near the TV, this has been a very long, emotional, nerve wracking day, to say the least. I go home, hug and kiss everyone in sight and try to get some sleep. God Bless Us, America!

9/12/01

 The lack of background noise from airplanes is deafening......the next few days are full of fear, uncertainty, thinking everything around you looks suspicious.....go to work, go to school and pray....The days are oddly filled with hope, also. The passengers on Flight 93 have proven to be real life heroes.....They acted on instinct and put everyone else in the country ahead of themselves.....would I ever be able to demonstrate such strength? Messages left to loved ones, saved and cherished forever.

 I distinctly remember the day I heard the first airplane fly overhead, it stopped me in my tracks, I watched its progress and wondered where it was going, and who were all of those brave people on board.....

 

Jill’s story:

Middletown [PA] was never so quiet and living next door to the airport*, I can say that's the God's honest truth. The worst was going into work that night for UPS at the airport and everyone just walking around, wondering what to do...our plane couldn't go anywhere. A bunch of us went out on the ramp and just stared up into the night sky and watched a pair of F-16 fighters pass above us with the plumes of steam from TMI in the background...yeah we had to worry about that, too...totally surreal and unforgettable. A couple days later when things got back to "normal", a trade show container came through our facility addressed to WTC # 2; I called our supervisor over and just looked at him and said, "what do we do with this???" He looked at me, shook his head and softly said, "send it back..."

*Harrisburg International

your little girl

Dear Dad,
Five years ago today, Guy, the boys and I put a nice, sharp pencil and the Sunday crossword in your coffin with you. This after a good chuckle about choosing one of the readings for your funeral in part because it contained the word "hoary" and we had to look it up. A really good crossword word, hoary. I haven't done a crossword since--not even the easy ones. Come to think of it, I don't think I've really used a pencil much, either; just pens. I can see you, just beyond my eyes, when I look up from my computer. I miss you. We all do.
Five years ago today, we travelled through the worst snow I'd been on the road for in forever. Well, since that time driving home from Rochester, when I figured you must have x-ray vision, because I sure as shootin' couldn't see the road from the back seat! You kept telling Mom that everything was fine, as long as you could concentrate. You could tell those white lies so convincingly! ha! I digress....I have pictures of where the road should be on our way to church that morning. And I told the boys that it was so like you to make sure there was a storm like that! It's lucky we made it to the house in the first place, and then to head to the church--and lunch afterwards! Only you.
Five years ago today, we stood in the snow in the cemetery, huddled together as much for actual warmth as for support. I remember so little of the ceremonies--the funeral Mass or the burial--but I most certainly remember the love, the joy we all share for having had you in our lives, the shared sadness. And I remember the Marines who came, a two and a half hour trip that took them nearly five; how young they seemed, how brave, and determined. In their dress blues, they saluted with rifles as the church bells rang their noon glory. When they folded the flag, they fought the need to shiver, unable to feel their fingers in their dress gloves.
Five years ago today, we invited those Marines to lunch, insisting that they join us, and eat before the long trip back to Syracuse. They agreed, but when we arrived at the restaurant, and they asked me to retrieve the flag for them, I realized they came as much out of a need to properly refold the flag as for the free meal. I was again impressed at the fact that you "survived" the Marine Corps. I wish we could have talked more about your time in the service after Mr. Johnson convinced you that it was something you should be more proud of. All I will ever know is that you were never sure it had been the right thing for you to do. Given that's what I knew from you, why would I be proud of you and so impressed? Because you followed through. You made the best of what you considered to be a less-than-ideal situation, and came through it a stronger man. It was a struggle, but you showed me that some of the important parts of  life are just that: struggles. But the result is as important as the journey.
Five years ago today, we all agreed that Valentine's Day would probably always be very different for us. Bittersweet. A beautiful day to share and remember the love we feel for one another, but also a day to remember losing one of our best examples of that love and devotion. A day on which I am deeply reminded how fragile yet strong loving wholeheartedly can make us. Thank you for that gift--something I never thought I'd say. Rose Kennedy said, "It has been said 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, (protecting its sanity) covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessons. But, it is never gone." Dad, I think, somehow, whether because of Paul Harvey afternoons or Reader's Digest magazines, you had something to do with my love of quotes. It could also have been your knack for making up convincing reasons and explanations for just about any question under the sun (or moon!). I believe Rose Kennedy was quite correct, although the scar tissue sometimes gets in the way of other healing, stretching and growing.
Five years ago this week, I faced just how much I was blessed to have you for as my dad, my guardian, my mentor, my first teacher, my friend. I love you still, and can see your spirit in the boys, in my dear Guy, in my siblings, and their families. Your legacy lives on. And yet, I miss you. I will always be your little girl, and will always feel like that little girl when I think of you, and when those thoughts bring tears to my eyes; an ache to my heart. The tears are a bit further between, and my insides feel a bit less hollow, but the love has continued to grow. Continue to laugh with us, and guide our feet on the journey. Remind us to take the long way when we can, and to savor the sights and sounds, the experiences of our expeditions. Lead us to the ice cream and frozen yogurt shoppes of life, whatever sustenance they will provide for our souls, minds and bodies. Guide us in love, hope, and faith, all of which you demonstrated to us, unwaveringly. Thanks, Dad. xo
Love,
Stephania

virtual vs. real

Yesterday, before I even put my glasses on, I had the most wonderful virtual visit with a couple of my dearest college friends -- one from the first go-around, and one from the second. The best part was when they were interacting on my page together. I can imagine them sitting together, drinking coffee, or eating lunch, giving me -- and each other -- a good-natured hard time, and I love it! In between, I was having a raucous virtual time with a group of people that I otherwise would have no contact with, or even knowledge of, if not for the "magic" of the internet, social media and other online communication. I love this technology, and vast array of ways it can be used for good.

At the same time, I find myself exceptionally frustrated with the use of media -- social and otherwise -- to cloud and obfuscate (thanks for the word, D-J!) what is important in life, in the world, in our real lives. We do not live in the magical, fantastical world that the internet and all its trappings create. We live in a real place, where people have been killed in the line of duty, and glossed over. Where children are truly and honestly afraid for their safety, the safety (The SAFETY -- Children!!) of their families, their homes, their country. Where every job is in jeopardy, it seems, of one sort or another. Where our peers, our own neighbors, really, are still wondering how to rebuild after a natural disaster. And yet, what are we showered with in the news? Frivolous 'scandals' that, in all likelihood, should be handled privately, behind closed doors, by the individuals involved. Except that the frivolity may just have been engineered. We may never know.

The unfortunate thing is that the virtual reality of our individual internet worlds starts to feel safer to us, because what seems to be happening in the real world looks more and more like a bad movie. Not the kind that one feels one can get up and walk out of, demanding a refund; rather, the type that falls under the category of "train wreck" or "rubbernecking." So many of us are finding ourselves wondering what could possibly happen next, and shaking our heads that it did, in fact, get worse.

Lately, too many things in my life that are dear to me have lead to discussions of breaking down to bare bones, to the very foundation, to the point of no return before anything can be salvaged. Not much is irreparable, in my opinion, but most things take a heck of a lot more work -- and energy -- to maintain than many people are willing to expend. I know this firsthand, and am willing to admit that I was quite willing to give up and watch the results of my laziness (why call it anything else?? I got complacent.) because working and giving got hard, and painful. I'm back, though, and I daresay with a vengeance. To tell you the truth, I feel more useful, more invigorated, more alive for it!

Don't let it all die. Go down fighting, or go away. Beware of propaganda (my youngest son and I have been talking about propaganda quite a bit lately! He's 12, and bringing home questions about what he's learned in school.) and its intent, which is seldom less than nefarious. Pray for answers. Act on them. Fight the good fight, and leave No One Behind.

admiration and pride

It's Veteran's Day today. Please, go find a Veteran, and say, "Thank you."

As I sat in Church this morning, gazing at the flag moved to a place of honor near the altar for the weekend, I found myself thinking about my favorite veteran. I know, and have known, a number of men and women who have served our country both in peacetime, as well as wartime. My father was a Marine, but drilled into me (pun intended) that he was not a veteran, as he had only served in peacetime. I'm not sure why, exactly, he saw it that way, when I've heard many times that anyone who has served is a veteran, but he was vehement. Perhaps his strong feelings were related to stories he may have heard from his godmother, Aunt Alice Watts, who was an Army Nurse in WWII. Perhaps there was something else, or someone else who shaped his views of his own time in the military, or maybe Grampa Henry was adamant, since he himself was a little bitter about not being able to serve in WWII because his job as a prison guard was too important stateside. Maybe it was the genuine modesty I've felt and observed from so many. I do know that whatever Dad's reasons, they were voiced strongly enough to me to have never asked again.

My favorite Veteran is someone I can't thank enough. He has done so much -- professionally, and for my family, and for me personally. I admire him: his courage, his dedication, his strength, his faith. I am grateful in ways I cannot express for his friendship, and his love. We have had discussions on any subject under the sun, and quite a few under the moon, as well. While I was in school, and he was deployed -- twice, there were days when I would IM him, asking his opinion on thoughts, questions, issues, and would fill him in on average, everyday things going on in my household. Carefully, we all chose what to include in packages to him -- a Christmas tree once, ping pong balls, tabletop toys -- with the cookies I made and wrapped carefully. Those packages were filled with anything we could find to express our love and admiration for him, and our hopes and prayers for his safety. That he knew. What he may not have known is that those packages were also filled with tears of worry for him and sadness for his family, missing him. They were filled with laughter, too, that the boys and I exploded with as we talked about the last time we were together, or what we should do when we saw him next. Once, I asked him what he missed most that day while we talked, and he said the snow. I had told him we had just gotten our first of the season. I went out that day and lay down in it to make a snow angel, just for him.

The blessing of this man has enriched my life, and I cannot thank God enough for him. He makes me mad sometimes , and there have been times when I wondered just who he thinks he is. And I'm quite sure he has the same thoughts about me sometimes. But when it comes down to the wire, he's always been there for me. His wife and my husband admire our friendship, too, and, wonderfully, it expands to include both families: we consider both to be just one, in many ways.

It is because of him that I go out of my way to thank anyone I see in uniform whenever possible. It is because of him that I cry every time I say that simple "Thank you for your service." It is because of him that I stay and listen to the response. For me, it would be much easier to just say thanks and keep moving. Most of the time, the response is very brief, possibly even rehearsed; but the look in their eyes.....that's the part that is important to me. The part that tugs at my heart and makes it overflow. The part that makes me cry every single time. Usually, afterwards, I'll send him a text, thanking him, too. It's been a while.

Today, looking at each star visible to me, each stripe on the flag, and the eagle atop the pole, wings outstretched, I thanked God once again for all who have served our country, giving of themselves -- selflessly -- and the immeasurable sacrifices they make, day after day. I lowered my head, too, at the realization, the admission, that always comes next: that I could not do it; I could never be in that uniform, and put myself on the line like they do. I admire each and every member of our Armed Forces, and I wish I could thank them all.

The best I can do today is to thank one in particular. Paul, thank you. I love you, and I admire you, and I am proud to be considered more than just your sister-in-love, to be considered your friend.

hurtful, hateful

Something happened over the weekend that really bothered me. I have been trying to resist the urge (the rather strong urge) to write about it because of who it was. Over the past week, I've talked it over with a couple of people I really trust, and they have agreed with my thoughts on the subject. Still, I thought it best to not voice my view; not to draw attention to what was probably a regrettable miscommunication. But I just can't keep quiet about it. I'm fired up, and will be until I get this off my chest.

Here goes.....

I don't know why you might think that you are equating "freedom of speech" with outright rude, nasty or disrespectful behavior. The flag is not simply a "piece of fabric," whether it is the Stars and Stripes or the flag of another country. They are no more a simple piece of fabric than the Bible, the Torah or the Koran are "just a book." The American flag is a representation of an entire country--"body, mind and soul," as it were. Burning a flag is, indeed, an action intended to make a statement. It is not just a right that anyone has, at any time. And if the statement is intended to show general hatred for an entire Nation--regardless of the nation--it is an outrage. Period.

I feel better now. I do have to say, I do completely agree with your statements regarding blanket hatred. Hating a race, a group, a population, simply for existing is ridiculous. Hating an ideology, however, that one takes the time to understand, without propaganda and other media influencing that understanding, is reasonable. Every ideology has levels of intensity, and fanatics in any ideology are dangerous--as dangerous as those with no understanding at all.

Respect the flag. It's the right thing to do.

not the usual day

Eleven years ago today, I dropped Jonathan off at school, dropped Drew off at nursery school, and went home to put Joseph down for a nap and hang out with Henry until pick-up and lunch, then Kindergarten for Henry and another nap for Joseph. Another hectic, yet typical day. It was a beautiful fall day--a day much like today; another Tuesday.

As I usually did when I got back after our walk around down dropping off siblings, I called Guy at work to say hello. He told me a plane had flown into a building in New York, and I remember saying that hadn't happened in a long time, thinking it was a small, personal plane. He kept saying it's such a mess, and I remember visualizing what a mess it would be to have an office window broken in and wind blowing papers and things all around while a bi-plane like Snoopy's sat in the middle of the office.

Finally, Guy convinced me to turn on the TV and see for myself. That was just as they showed the second plane hit. I sat down. I said, "Oh, my God." I said something like, "What the hell is going on?" I was too stunned to cry, to yell, to react at all. And I was some 175 miles away. At some point I started to think of all the people in the city on any given day, and when I began to get overwhelmed, I told Guy to get back to work while I tried to occupy Henry for a few minutes.

Before long, I was on the phone with my sister in Atlanta. We talked and watched together, wondering what would happen next. I remember two things distinctly from that phone call. The first: when I expressed relief that my brother-in-law was stationed in Montana, and not at someplace that seemed a "high target" area, she mentioned that he was probably guarding missile silos. "What other reason is there to have a base in the middle of nowhere?" My heart stopped. The second: at some point, she said that if she were to decide to create widespread panic, Atlanta would be a likely target--both of us were watching CNN, based in Atlanta. "What would cause more panic than not being able to see what's happening anywhere in the world?" I got off the phone with her, wondering when I would get to speak to her again, only because it was time to pick Drew up.

By then it seemed that planes would be going down all day. The nursery school teachers had no idea what was going on--only that something unimaginably bad was happening. The lead teacher in Drew's class came out to find out how all of us were doing, and if anyone needed help with the kids, an extra prayer, if anyone needed to share anything in the dim sanctuary of the hallway. We all expressed our disbelief, our shock, our collective fear.

Later that day, I remember thinking that I felt very similar to the day of the Oklahoma City bombing. That day, I had only Jonathan, a baby, and I scooped him out of his crib and held him for the rest of his nap, the rest of the day until Guy got home. That day, all I could think of were those children in the daycare center downstairs in Oklahoma. On September 11, 2001, all I could think of were those parents in the towers, and the children left at home.

Filling out the calendar for school this year, I noticed that September 11 would fall on a Tuesday again. I wondered if it would be harder, being the same day. Occasionally, I would think that it was coming up, and, knowing myself, I figured it would affect me more than usual, being a Tuesday. And this morning when I woke up, I did remember. But it wasn't until I heard Denny and Sue on the radio, and Denny mentioned that the forecast looked to be the same day as 2001 that it hit me--all the memories came flooding back. Memories from that day, and the days, weeks and months that followed.

No planes flying overhead. The silence. The Middle Eastern mother at Jonathan's school who stopped wearing her robes and headscarf to drop off an pick up her child. The panic I felt every morning. How I wished Guy did not have to leave the house every day. How I wished I had somewhere to go, like he did. My amazement that anyone could act normally. The voice telling me, "Be not afraid." The calm that followed. "Thy will be done." Suddenly remembering a friend who could have been there, and the related need to find out. (None of them had been.) My brother telling me about visiting New York for work because no one else would take the territory, and his visits to stores and a fire department. Starting to feel normal again.

Needing, wanting to hear others' stories, memories, reflections.....my friend's twin daughters seeing themselves as related to the twin towers as they grew up; a stranger on a ferry telling me about the changes she had seen; dear friends who knew someone; 102 Minutes.

Today's flag at half staff.

Never Forget.

Ever.

the story I knew about

One of Guy's aunts used to live on Long Island, and when Joseph was about 2, we went to visit. Their home was our base for a long weekend in New York. We had a wonderful time visiting with them, touring Yankee stadium, riding the subway trains, and enjoying a free performing arts festival at Lincoln Center. But there was one thing that made the trip truly unforgettable and different from any other trip I've made to the City.

One of the things I insisted on was to take the Staten Island Ferry and see Battery Park. On our last day, we left early, drove all the way around to Staten Island and rode in on the water. We did some of the usual park things: watched performers, had a 'name' painted by a street artist, perused the merchandise. Then we walked up to Ground Zero.

As we approached, there was still a silence, a reverence in the area; memorial flowers, notes and ribbons fluttered in the fence. At first, we were a little surprised that the fence was so high and the portholes through it so few, but the closer we got, the harder it was to focus through our tears, through the collective conscienceness' pain that still hung in the air. It was more than a little disconcerting to see the mess, the rubble and cracked pavement that could still be seen; and yet a little church across the street was unscathed. We were a somewhat somber group heading back to the ferry to go home. It's hard to be lost in thought for long with a toddler and 3 other young children while visiting an unfamiliar city, though.

Back on the Ferry, I sat on a bench and watched Guy with the boys, lifting them one at a time to the rail to get a better look, and eventually putting Joseph on his shoulders. I tried not to be too nervous about the whole scene before me, since I was tired and glad for the break. A woman sitting next to me asked if they were all mine. "All five," I answered, with a smile, and that warm feeling of mingled pride and admiration at our family. "It's so nice to see families come to the City again," she remarked. Until that point, I had not even considered that she was from the area.

Raised in Upstate New York, I had always heard adjectives ranging from "standoffish and aloof" to "downright unfriendly" used to describe New Yorkers (what we called those from the City). Living in Rhode Island, I had learned that city folks could be a bit bristly, but, in all reality, the city people I'd been in contact with were simply people--busy people with someplace to go all the time, but people nonetheless. This woman was striking up a conversation with me, a total stranger--and obviously an out-of-towner at that. I turned my head to look at her and asked, "Have there been fewer visitors?" In reality, life in Pennsylvania had gone on since September 11th; tourism was moderately affected locally.

She told me that people had started to come back, but for a while--a long while--there were far fewer tourists. Something she noticed particularly on the Ferry. Then she told me about that day. She told me about the boats--hundreds of them--ferrying people from Manhattan to the shores of Staten Island. She told me about thousands of people, dusty, dirty, dazed, in shock, streaming off the boats. For hours. She told me, too, about the Staten Islanders greeting them all.

That was the part of the story that got to me. The part that made me proud to be listening to this woman I sat next to by chance. The part that made me feel an unexplained kinship to her. She told me that the citizens of Staten Island--at the docks at first to get a glimpse of what atrocities had happened across the harbor, like any red-blooded American rubbernecker--became the greeters. Like the Maine Troop Greeters of Bangor, ME, the members of this community gathered at the terminal with blankets, soup, coffee, fresh water, and, most importantly, open arms, shoulders to lean on, and a willingness to listen, to comfort, to cry. And they kept it up for the entire evacuation. Afterwards, many of the shopkeepers and innkeepers on the island offered rooms and goods to the people who didn't know where to go, or who couldn't get home. The Staten Islanders opened more than their arms that day; they opened their hearts wide. They made a difference. They did what needed to be done, without even thinking about how hard it might be, how dangerous, how frightening. They opened themselves, and they grew as a consequence.

I asked the woman if the tone in New York and on Staten Island had changed. She told me that there was a new respect for survival; a new feeling of oneness, if not family. She said there was obviously more generosity of spirit, and more willingness to make eye contact with strangers, and not the suspicious stare-down familiar on TV and in the movies. She said the City had become friendlier, more open, more inviting, without losing its identity. This was what she found most telling. The ability to learn something fundamental about the very depths of your being and still manage to stay who you are impressed her....and me. New York was still New York, only more so. What also impressed me was how humble she was. According to Boatlift, a film short chronicling the rescue efforts, half a million people were ferried off Manhattan island to various locations nearby. A half a million people. The woman had told me that they did what they should; nothing more and certainly nothing less.

As for myself, I was changed by the encounter. We exchanged nothing but some conversation. I don't know her name, and I cannot remember anything at all about what she looked like or her voice. Only her words, and the intense feelings behind them. At the beginning of the Boatlift film, there is a quote: "A hero is a man who does what he can." (Romain Rolland). When I shared the video on my Facebook page, I said that "This is what Character looks like." Riding on that Ferry, out of earshot of my family, a Hero spoke to me. A real Character. And I am all the better for it.

never forget; ever

September 11. 9/11. However you say it, the memories and emotions come with the same intensity. A single day, but one that impacted even those who like to think it didn't.

That day, 10 years ago, was a beautiful, clear early autumn Tuesday. We walked Jonathan to school, then dropped Drew at preschool, having no idea that in that time, the world had changed. I remember that when I got home, I called Guy at work and he told me that someone flew into a building in Manhattan. I figured small, single engine plane--barnstormer-type--muttered what an idiot the pilot had to be, and began to tell him about my morning with the boys, as usual. He insisted that I had to see what was going on, so I reluctantly turned on the TV. I was completely stunned by what I saw: smoke, clouds of dust, a gaping hole in a magnificent building--and then I saw the most horrible thing of all. As I watched, the second plane flew into the South Tower. 'Stunned' does not even begin to describe how I felt. The wind had been knocked out of me; the very life force. I believe strongly in the collective conscience of mankind, and it was fractured beyond measure. I felt emptiness, deep to the bottom of my soul, along with dread and terror. Clearly, this was the intended reaction.

I stayed on the phone with Guy for a time, but with the announcement that another plane--Flight 93--was off course, I couldn't stay on the phone with him. Shortly thereafter, I was on the phone again with my sister in Atlanta, who very plainly stated that this could very well be our last conversation. What I hadn't thought about were possible targets. I was trapped in a "right now" cycle of thought--perhaps because my family was not securely together. Guy was at work, two boys were at two different schools, and I was at home with the other two. My thoughts had been tied to rounding everyone up when the right time came. Celeste pointed out that if the terrorists were wise, they would strike communications centers next--CNN, for example--in order to increase the feeling of panic: no news=fear of the unknown, a thought far more devastating at that moment than being able to see and hear what was going on in real time. She went on to say that the next targets would be military bases, such as the one in North Dakota where my brother-in-law was stationed.

My soul limped with me to preschool to collect Drew. The parents in the hall outside the classroom were all equally pained. Not one of us knew what to expect, how to cope, where to turn, but each of us knew that for our 3-year-olds, we needed to be strong and optimistic. The teachers had not been apprised of any details, just that there was something happening that would be difficult to face in the hours, days, months and years to follow.

I remember the silence in the days that followed. No planes in the air, only fear, grief, even faithlessness. I remember picking Jonathan up at school, and the pretty Muslim mother stopped wearing her veil, and I felt ashamed that she should be fearful of her own identity. And yet, I did not speak with her; did not introduce myself. I remember the tears that I cried every time I was alone from the boys--the boys for whom I tried to be a rock of safety in this storm of the unknown. I remember B telling me that she had been prescribed anti-depressants because she really could not cope with the events, the news, the silence in the air. She told me she didn't think they were strong enough; she needed more to find peace. Her mantra had become, "Thy will be done." I remember sobbing when I hung up the phone. I could not let go of my fear enough to have faith enough in anyone's will. Anyone at all, even God's.

I had trouble sleeping; had vivid nightmares wherein the fire department would knock on the door in the night to evacuate us, but had no answers as to where we should go. Just get out. Now. I had a constant need to know what everyone was doing and where they were at all times. I was going crazy. Each morning I woke and cried--hard--because I did not think I'd be able to cope, to pretend to my children that life was okay, that they were blessed, and safe, and that the bad guys behind the whole thing would be brought to justice. I wanted to be relieved of that duty, and that pressure.

One morning, after the planes were flying again, I woke to a voice in my mind and in my heart. It consumed me completely. "Be not afraid. I go before you ALWAYS." A song I learned as a child from the Folk Group at church, about the Beatitudes. A favorite song, actually, but I was not singing it, nor thinking about it. And it was spoken. I felt warm, held close, safe, and yet I said, "I AM afraid!" Again, the voice, calm and clear in the center of my being, "Be not afraid. I will give you rest."

I began to live again that day. My remembrance shifted from the pain and sorrow that bring fear to that which brings connectedness. While I was wrapped up in my own pain, I could not see that others felt what I was feeling; that others needed me as much as I needed them and still do. I've always admired firefighters, clergy, the military--people who choose to give their lives to someone or something greater than themselves, as literally as they give figuratively. I will never forget. Remembering is what makes us stronger. Remembering is what gives us the courage to build on what we know--about ourselves as individuals, as family, as a nation. I still weep. I won't stop. I'll fly my flag, I'll thank those who give of themselves, and I will move on.

September 11. 9/11. A single day. A lifetime.