I wasn't going to write about my own memories of the morning of 9/11 since I live in So. California and can't really say anything about that day that is any more than what anyone else can say who watched it unfold on television. I changed my mind this morning as I listened to some of the personal stories and read many personal accounts.
I was asleep. It had been one of those crazy nights the night before. I had 24/7 care of my Mother who had had two strokes and when she had a restless night, I rarely got much sleep. Having finally gotten her settled and rolled into bed in the wee hours of the morning, I was not too happy to hear my phone ring in the 8:30 to 9:00 am timeframe. It was a friend calling and saying, "turn on your TV, turn on your TV!" As I hit the on button and the picture came on, the very first image that hit me as I tried to get fully awake was the second plane hitting. It made no sense.
I jumped out of bed and ran in and woke my son and daughter-in-law and we all huddled in front of the TV. I was numb. I felt nothing. It wasn't real. It was just another video disaster flick.
My friend called back and said he had been told not to come in to work that morning as a civilian employee at one of the military bases in San Diego. He said, "I can't sit here at home all by myself, can I come over?" A few minutes later, my nephew showed up and two others from the younger generation. We all sat in quiet horror watching as the towers came down and the replays of those planes. People jumping out of high rise buildings. The Pentagon in flames. And then Flight 93 crashing just a couple of miles from where I was born and raised.
My Mother, who due to her strokes, had vision problems and did not always process new information quickly was watching quietly. I did not know if she was comprehending or not, when suddenly she started chanting under her breath, "those bastards, those bastards, those bastards, those bastards," over and over again. We all hugged, we all joined Grandma in her chant ... those bastards, those bastards, those bastards!
As I watched and listened to the half dozen twenty- and thirty-something people around me, I realized how very shaken they all were. I was taken back to a gloomy day in November 1963, when as a naive "Happy Days generation" eighteen year old, I sat huddled with friends at the college student union. To us, that day was the end of our innocence, just as Pearl Harbor had been for my Mother's generation. Finally my emotions broke through and I cried and I cried and I went back to chanting, "those bastards, those bastards, those bastards!"
Related:
The Lesson Of 9/11 - Beautiful thought.
Five Years Later -- We Will Not Forget - a terrific roundup
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