I Remember, I Remember.....

The circumstances were different this time.

12 years previous my visit to Ground Zero was one of Communion; this time it was of remembrance. For my 15 year old son, it was a time of discovery.

In October of 2002, a coworker and I made the long journey from the south end of Central Park to Ground Zero to see with our own eyes the remnants of that fateful day in 2001. We’d walked around St. Paul’s Cathedral and gazed at the faded missing person’s signs, and poignant memorials erected to help those who lost so much grieve as they saw fit. It tore at my heart then, and as subsequent years the thought of those losses and heartbreak still gives me pause.

I remember, I remember.

I’m 12 years older now, and so is my eldest son. He was three years old when the airplanes hit the towers, and has little to no recollection of what had happened on that day. A soon-to-be high school sophomore he wanted me to take him to New York for the day. We’d made plans for it during the summer months, and so on July 3^rd we made our way east. The larger part of this experience was to show him the City, but selfishly; part of the trip was for me.

Our itinerary was simple, get to the city and see what we could all see in less than 24 hours. Our hotel was in Chinatown so we took the train to Times Square and dove headfirst into the NY City experience. From Times Square we walked to Rockefeller Plaza, through the south end of Central Park, all the while keeping our senses open to the sights, sounds, and smells around us. He’s an easy going kid, willing to walk and sweat and endure. We smiled and laughed a lot, taking in the brusque New York attitude with a Midwestern shoulder shrug of acceptance. He realized his dream of eating a slice of pie at a small, out of the way place on 5^th Avenue, folding it like a native and giving me the “whaddaYOU looking at?” look. It was priceless.

As the afternoon turned into early evening, the skyscraper canyons took on a heavy brooding feel. The air was heavy and humid and we felt that a change in the weather was coming. Thunderstorms had been forecast for later in the day, and sure enough the skies seemed to be on the verge of opening up. On 34^th street and 8^th Avenue we grabbed the blue line back downtown.

The last stop on the line was the 9/11 Memorial. Ground Zero.

A voice over the loudspeaker announced arrival into the station, and as the train slowed to a stop I felt a sense of calm. Maybe it was because there were only a handful of others in the car with us, or maybe it was because the doors didn’t immediately open to a flood of stampeding humanity. Why was I apprehensive? Why was I being overly dramatic? I wanted to rail against myself for feeling what I was feeling but I couldn’t. I followed my feet up the steps.

 

The sun was shining when we reached the street, the pavement fresh with rain. In a light mist we found our bearings and I looked up at the street signs that identified the intersection of Fulton and Church. It seemed only like yesterday that I’d stood at that very spot. How things had changed. Behind us, the fence surrounding St. Paul’s Chapel no longer carried memorials or missing person’s posters. The signed hockey stick and Philippine flag from my memory had long since been removed.

We set off towards the 9/11 Memorial and Reflecting Pools. In 2002 the site was still in the process of recovery and one could step up to the fences and look deep down into the space that 1 and 2 World Trade Centers had once occupied. Construction is still abound at the site, as well as a very frontal presence from the NYPD. As the 4^th of July was the next day they were out in force to ensure the security of the grounds.  After a brief walk we found ourselves at the Reflecting Pools, reading the names while feeling the presence of the Freedom Tower besides us. In a way it felt like a giant tombstone looking over us, a weight hanging over our journey.  The gunmetal gray sky threatened to open up on us.

Your vision oscillates between the movement and sound of the water in the Reflecting Pools below you, to the soaring vision of the Freedom Tower above. And as you change your focus; your eyes take you back to the etched bronze plates that surround the Pools. It’s those names; those lives that give you pause. The Pentagon. Shanksville. Flight 11. Flight 93. Flight 175. Flight 77. NYPD. FDNY. PANY. Family or well-wishers had left single flowers on individual names. The singularity of those gestures impacted me more than the whole of the memorial. It felt like that first single tear that burns before it falls from your eye.

 

At different times of our tour of the memorial I'd look at my son and try to gage his emotions. Did he have a sense of history? A sense of loss or of understanding? His is the generation who will never know what it’s like to be able to say goodbye to someone at the departure gate of an airport.  Or that once-upon-a-time you could go through security without taking off your shoes. He took it all in quietly, somber and respectful of where he was. I wasn’t there when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, or when President Kennedy was shot, but I understand the impact of both events. I suspect it was the same for him.  Without too much overt emotion we turned and looked back at the Freedom Tower from the south Reflecting Pool and walked away from the site.

It rained and stormed on our trip back to Chinatown from through the Financial District. Rain and winds soaked us to the bone as we made the trek back to our hotel. A late night Chinese meal and the purchase of a faux-Seiko watch rounded out our day.  As I settled down to sleep I looked over to the other bed and saw my son’s dark hair on the pillow, comforter pulled up to his nose. I thought about what we had seen that day, and the places that we had visited. 

As I looked at him laying peacefully asleep in this New York hotel room I remembered back to that evening back on September 11, 2001, and sitting on the edge of his bed, stroking his hair as he slept with the same angelic look on his face. I smiled ruefully at the memory.

I'll protect you kiddo I vowed to him then.

I'll protect you as long as I can now.

I remembered. I remember.

The Quiet Neighbors

When we first moved into the neighborhood in December 1999 home ownership was fresh and new.

On one of the first major snow events I remember being happy and content to shovel the sidewalk along the avenue. My new neighbor was out with his snowblower and met me in the middle of the block as he had already cleared a substantial amount of "my" portion of sidewalk. We introduced ourselves, noses running in the blowing snow, and he chided me for shoveling by hand. I explained that this was our first house and I was excited by the prospect of being a new home owner and being able to shovel my own walk. I suspect he thought that I was crazy.

They had been in the neighborhood for a while, 20+ years our seniors, with 2 adult children living with them. Polite, hard working, and quiet. Nice as can be. Everything you would want from a neighbor.

As our family of 3 grew to 4 we've spent many days and nights in our backyard. Bonfires, yard parties, and the like. I can't count how many soccer balls have been bounced off of their siding. We would say hello when we were out, often they would have their dog, Misha, out on a walk and we would make small talk about the weather. Everyone once in a while the doorbell would ring and they would bring over a plate of cookies and bars to share. Brenda would often make a plate of treats to share as well.

Over the years, in the middle of frigid Minnesota nights, sun down at 4:30pm I'd be pulling my snow pants and boots on to go and shovel the driveway and sidewalk. Many times if the accumulations were more than a few inches, he or one of his sons would already be out there blowing the entire block for us. I'd wave and smile and yell my thanks over the sound of the Briggs and Stratton engine. And not once in the non-snow seasons did I ever have to pick up Misha droppings. Like I said, ideal neighbors.

Being older than us we'd see the parents start to experience the affects of aging, but they were always still able to get out and about, without relying too much on their sons. Micha was getting walked, the driveway and sidewalk were getting shoveled.

A couple of months ago, their youngest son died unexpectedly of a heart attack while working out.

And then yesterday, Fathers Day, the dad passed away.

As I write this I struggle and wonder if I was a good neighbor, if I could have done anything different. I feel like we've missed out on something more important than a few inches of snow and some rice crispie treats. It's more than a sense of survivors guilt, or sadness of one's passing.

My heart cries for a wife who has lost a husband, partner, and son.
It cries for a son who has lost a sibling and daddy.
I'm sure Misha is sad as well.

Whatever emotion I'm looking for I can't place my finger on it. But whetever it is - it sure does hurt.