I just walked through my kitchen. The wallpaper is gone. So is the little TV. The highchair is missing, too — the little man who was sitting in it 18-years ago is now a sophomore in college. Kids who were born on that horrific day are now eligible to serve in the military.
A generation has now fought in the war on terror.
Our innocence died on that day as we watched in horror as men and women died right before our eyes. Their crimes? They just went to work.
How I remember it all so well.
Amy and I watched it in our kitchen. We had been squabbling over something stupid and as I turned around, I noticed black smoke billowing out of the World Trade Center. I told her to come over and look. Right as she did, the second hijacked plane plowed into the other tower. I looked over at our one-year-old son and wondered what kind of f’ed up world he’d now grow up in. We watched as papers floated surreally to the ground. Soon people jumped behind them. Suicide by splattering on the pavement was preferable to burning to death — all on live TV.
Eventually I pulled myself from the little TV and headed downtown to the Clarion-Ledger. We had a few old-style TVs around the newsroom and a group of us watched in horror as the second tower collapsed into a billowing cloud of toxic dust. Then as the second tower fell, I drew my cartoon of the Statue of Liberty. As I was drawing, the Pentagon was hit. Then Flight 93 became the first battle where we fought back. Let’s roll!
We didn’t know what was next.
I remember driving home that day. As airplanes were landing, people were driving 50 mph on the interstate (they don’t do that if there is snow) . Gas was $1.35 a gallon at Pump-In-Save where the Volkswagen dealership is now. I still have my American Flag magnet that was on the back of Amy’s van. I have a yellowed copy of the flag that The Clarion-Ledger printed. My “United We Stand” eagle head cartoon (my favorite all-time cartoon) seems like an antique now.
A couple of years ago, we were on the ferry riding out to the Statue of Liberty. As the boat pulled up next to the dock, I looked at the statue and realized it was the same exact view as my cartoon from 9/11. Memories of that day flooded back to me. Later in the day, we went to the 9/11 Memorial Museum.
My sons looked around at the crumpled artifacts (two of my three kids were born after 9/11). There was the crushed firetruck. They saw the steel beam cross that survived. The stairwell where a group of people survived the collapse. Your heart sank as you went down into the museum. I looked around at possessions of some of the thousands of victims. It was a child’s toy that triggered me — it looked like the one my youngest son had just flown with on our flight to New York.
Tears streamed down my face as I openly wept.
What I had tried to avoid for so many years finally came crashing down on me. The people who died that horrible day now had a face and a name.
I thought of them as I walked through the kitchen tonight. It’s where I first got to know them.
All I can say is this: Bless them and their families. Bless all the first responders. Bless our country.
And bless our lost souls.