I tread on sensitive ground when I talk about September 11, 2001. My own sensitive ground, and that of millions of other people as well. There will be no humor in my blog today. There is no place here for humor. When I think of where I was, of what I was doing, of the time of day, it is all so vivid in some ways. Yet in other ways it is a jumbled disarray. I remember the expressions on the faces of certain people. I remember their words as the towers fell, and in my ears I can hear their words ringing to this very day. How vividly I recall the feelings of confusion that washed over me as the radio came on and I started to hear bits and pieces of the turmoil that was unfolding. It took some time to grasp the reality of it.
Before I talk about that day, I have to go back... During the summer of 2001 I became good friends, through email correspondence, with a couple from Mahopac, New York. Most of my correspondence was with Gina, the wife half of the couple, who shared a common interest in collecting 1/6 scale Western memorabilia. That's the fancy way of saying "toys." To make this part of the story short, we talked a lot, and our friendship grew to the point that Gina and her husband Rich decided to spend their fall vacation with my family. I agreed to take them on a tour of my favorite place in the world, Yellowstone National Park.
During our correspondence, I had learned that Gina's father was ailing. So it was natural to think that his condition was going to seriously worsen when around the third week of August I received a message in my heart telling me that Gina, Rich, and their son John would not be coming out to Idaho to go to Yellowstone with us. Something very bad was going to happen. I know it sounds strange to read those words: "I received a message in my heart." But I can't find any other way to describe what happened. All I know is that something came to me very plainly telling me that Gina and Rich would have a bad incident occur that would keep them from coming. I had had this type of thing occur to me before, most recently when something told me on several different occasions that my apparently very healthy wolf dog, Loup was soon going to die. And in the incident with the flat tire when I was seventeen, which you have already learned of if you have followed my blog. So needless to say, although I wanted badly to put this feeling aside, when it persisted I finally had to tell Gina she wasn't going to be able to come. I couldn't tell her why. I didn't know. All I could say, and I hated how stupid it must have come across then, was that something bad was going to happen and they should prepare for it.
Well, I'm sure by now you know what that "something" was. And how can you prepare for it? How can you prepare for an act as monstrous as the attack on the Twin Towers? An assault on the American People themselves? As fate would have it, the tickets Rich and Gina had purchased had them flying out of New York City at 9:00 on September 11, 2001. We were to meet them in Pocatello on the 13th and proceed from there to Yellowstone.
I was driving to work in my pickup when I turned on talk radio. I started to listen, and none of what the DJ's were saying made sense. I thought for a few minutes that they were talking about some past occurrence. And then it began to unfold, and my brain began to grasp the significance of it all. Immediately, my guts became unsettled. I won't go into the details of that, other than to say that for whatever reason my "fight or flight" mechanism took over. I was headed for Fire Station 3 to gather my gear and proceed to Station 2, and I was so sick by the time I reached the station that I headed straight for the bathroom. I remember turning my head and seeing the towers burning on TV as I went through the day room.
I returned to the room to the sheer terror of the attacks unfolding. I'll never forget the shock emanating through the room. The disbelief and dismay. I gathered my gear and sped as fast as I dared across town to Station 2. I arrived to find my good friend Kelly watching the news unfold. He was standing up, pacing the floor, his face filled with shock. When the first tower collapsed his face went white, and over and over he repeated the words, "Oh, my God." He kept putting his hand over his mouth, a classic sign of comforting oneself, and this from a man who is very self-confident and strong in his everyday life. As for me, I didn't speak at all. My voice was gone.
When it was plain that so many hundreds of firefighters and police officers could not have survived the collapse of that first building, the pit of my stomach was empty of all but acid. I could not believe what I had seen, the sight of people jumping from those towers and falling like missiles to their deaths. The footage, shown over and over again, of the planes veering into the buildings and bursting into flame. It was branded like a torch into my mind. It will never leave.
Turning on the computer, I saw the horrified messages from my friend Gina, in New York. You can imagine the sights she was seeing from her home. We both now new that her father was safe. The bad news that had been impending was far greater reaching than just the worsening of her father's condition.
I am a very emotional person. I have to admit that I was one of the weak. My wife and baby were home that day, and I could not stay at work. With my stomach being sick anyway, I took the day off and went to be with my family. I couldn't hold them enough. We watched the carnage on the TV at home, and strangely enough, I couldn't even cry. But the shock and the pain hit later. I went back to work after I got to see all of my kids come home from school and held them all tightly to me. There, back at Station 3, where I had begun my day, I sat down and penned my poem, "A Tear Fell," and as any writer does I released my emotion in those words, brought the morning's events into focus, and into the realm of true life, and then I cried.
I don't know if this blog makes sense at all. I don't know if I can even read back over it, because of the pain it still brings to my heart. But I hope we can all remember that day as strongly as I do. I hope that we all will follow our hearts and make September 11th a national holiday if that becomes our choice, to remember those fallen, the innocent and the heroes who died trying to save them. That event cemented our nation for a time, but how soon we forgot. I hope we can bring back the fear that day put in our hearts, but more importantly the pride in our country. This place, the United States of America, is not perfect. We have done things we can't be proud of. So have all countries. But there is no better country to be a part of than America. We cannot forget that fact. As long as we are free, and strong enough to protect ourselves, this country is worth living in, and fighting for. I hope we will all live by Patrick Henry's words, "Give me liberty... Or give me death!" Truly, life is worth nothing without freedom. Anyone who has traveled as much of the world as I have knows that. As one of my heroes, Chris LeDoux, once sang, "Freedom Ain't Free." And part of guarding our freedom is remembering the times when others tried to take it away, when others tried to bring us down. Never forget. We owe it to those who died on September 11, 2001. Never forget.
For those of you who may never have read it, here is the link to my poem about the September 11 attacks, written the night of September 11, 2001, at Fire Station Number 3. NEVER FORGET. http://kirbyjonas.com/poetry/atearfell.html
Before I talk about that day, I have to go back... During the summer of 2001 I became good friends, through email correspondence, with a couple from Mahopac, New York. Most of my correspondence was with Gina, the wife half of the couple, who shared a common interest in collecting 1/6 scale Western memorabilia. That's the fancy way of saying "toys." To make this part of the story short, we talked a lot, and our friendship grew to the point that Gina and her husband Rich decided to spend their fall vacation with my family. I agreed to take them on a tour of my favorite place in the world, Yellowstone National Park.
During our correspondence, I had learned that Gina's father was ailing. So it was natural to think that his condition was going to seriously worsen when around the third week of August I received a message in my heart telling me that Gina, Rich, and their son John would not be coming out to Idaho to go to Yellowstone with us. Something very bad was going to happen. I know it sounds strange to read those words: "I received a message in my heart." But I can't find any other way to describe what happened. All I know is that something came to me very plainly telling me that Gina and Rich would have a bad incident occur that would keep them from coming. I had had this type of thing occur to me before, most recently when something told me on several different occasions that my apparently very healthy wolf dog, Loup was soon going to die. And in the incident with the flat tire when I was seventeen, which you have already learned of if you have followed my blog. So needless to say, although I wanted badly to put this feeling aside, when it persisted I finally had to tell Gina she wasn't going to be able to come. I couldn't tell her why. I didn't know. All I could say, and I hated how stupid it must have come across then, was that something bad was going to happen and they should prepare for it.
Well, I'm sure by now you know what that "something" was. And how can you prepare for it? How can you prepare for an act as monstrous as the attack on the Twin Towers? An assault on the American People themselves? As fate would have it, the tickets Rich and Gina had purchased had them flying out of New York City at 9:00 on September 11, 2001. We were to meet them in Pocatello on the 13th and proceed from there to Yellowstone.
I was driving to work in my pickup when I turned on talk radio. I started to listen, and none of what the DJ's were saying made sense. I thought for a few minutes that they were talking about some past occurrence. And then it began to unfold, and my brain began to grasp the significance of it all. Immediately, my guts became unsettled. I won't go into the details of that, other than to say that for whatever reason my "fight or flight" mechanism took over. I was headed for Fire Station 3 to gather my gear and proceed to Station 2, and I was so sick by the time I reached the station that I headed straight for the bathroom. I remember turning my head and seeing the towers burning on TV as I went through the day room.
I returned to the room to the sheer terror of the attacks unfolding. I'll never forget the shock emanating through the room. The disbelief and dismay. I gathered my gear and sped as fast as I dared across town to Station 2. I arrived to find my good friend Kelly watching the news unfold. He was standing up, pacing the floor, his face filled with shock. When the first tower collapsed his face went white, and over and over he repeated the words, "Oh, my God." He kept putting his hand over his mouth, a classic sign of comforting oneself, and this from a man who is very self-confident and strong in his everyday life. As for me, I didn't speak at all. My voice was gone.
When it was plain that so many hundreds of firefighters and police officers could not have survived the collapse of that first building, the pit of my stomach was empty of all but acid. I could not believe what I had seen, the sight of people jumping from those towers and falling like missiles to their deaths. The footage, shown over and over again, of the planes veering into the buildings and bursting into flame. It was branded like a torch into my mind. It will never leave.
Turning on the computer, I saw the horrified messages from my friend Gina, in New York. You can imagine the sights she was seeing from her home. We both now new that her father was safe. The bad news that had been impending was far greater reaching than just the worsening of her father's condition.
I am a very emotional person. I have to admit that I was one of the weak. My wife and baby were home that day, and I could not stay at work. With my stomach being sick anyway, I took the day off and went to be with my family. I couldn't hold them enough. We watched the carnage on the TV at home, and strangely enough, I couldn't even cry. But the shock and the pain hit later. I went back to work after I got to see all of my kids come home from school and held them all tightly to me. There, back at Station 3, where I had begun my day, I sat down and penned my poem, "A Tear Fell," and as any writer does I released my emotion in those words, brought the morning's events into focus, and into the realm of true life, and then I cried.
I don't know if this blog makes sense at all. I don't know if I can even read back over it, because of the pain it still brings to my heart. But I hope we can all remember that day as strongly as I do. I hope that we all will follow our hearts and make September 11th a national holiday if that becomes our choice, to remember those fallen, the innocent and the heroes who died trying to save them. That event cemented our nation for a time, but how soon we forgot. I hope we can bring back the fear that day put in our hearts, but more importantly the pride in our country. This place, the United States of America, is not perfect. We have done things we can't be proud of. So have all countries. But there is no better country to be a part of than America. We cannot forget that fact. As long as we are free, and strong enough to protect ourselves, this country is worth living in, and fighting for. I hope we will all live by Patrick Henry's words, "Give me liberty... Or give me death!" Truly, life is worth nothing without freedom. Anyone who has traveled as much of the world as I have knows that. As one of my heroes, Chris LeDoux, once sang, "Freedom Ain't Free." And part of guarding our freedom is remembering the times when others tried to take it away, when others tried to bring us down. Never forget. We owe it to those who died on September 11, 2001. Never forget.
For those of you who may never have read it, here is the link to my poem about the September 11 attacks, written the night of September 11, 2001, at Fire Station Number 3. NEVER FORGET. http://kirbyjonas.com/poetry/atearfell.html
My dear friend I still cannot bring myself to read your poem...just seeing the eagle with the tear in his eye is enough for me right now...even though I know you write so poignantly. What I did see of the events of that horrific day are so etched in my brain! How could we forget?!
ReplyDeleteI just figured out who you are. Silly me!
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