We're in the studio alone this morning, the DH and I. SuzyG is off galivanting with others from the direct sales company with which she is affiliated, and we're quietly getting things done. Okay, the DH is getting things done. I'm goofing off on Facebook sending a Friend from History to Jake. I felt he deserved the Marquis de Sade, mostly due to my sick sense of humor rather than any proclivities on Jake's part....of which I'm aware. But instead I sent him Rasputin, seeing as how he was just re-elected president of the local university history honors society despite claiming not to want the honor again. I think he cast a spell. I'm sure he's capable of it.
BTW, he sent me Mary Shelley, the woman who dreamed up Frankenstein and his monster. I choose to believe it's because she was an intelligent, creative woman who was ahead of her time. If it's something to do with the subject matter, well, let's just say that Jake is safer with my chosen interpretation.
Anyway, nice and quiet, until we hear someone clomping up the front steps and across the porch. DH goes out to greet him. Have I mentioned the staff as a whole tries to avoid having the Office Goddess deal with the general public? I, of course, am bemused as to their reasoning. Sure I am. So, this man says he has pictures to pick up, under this or this name, and that we've called him a few times.
I should think we have. The pictures have been here, and paid for, for SEVEN MONTHS! Mind you we have orders that have been here, again, with the money already spent, for years. As the DH goes into production to pull the order, I hear the guy comment that he was here at nine, because "he expected we would be open at nine."
Oh, really? Because everytime we leave a voice mail, and he's admitted to getting several, we state that we're open from 10-6, Tues. through Sat. That information is also posted on the parking lot side, and the front of the building, is on the voice mail message at the studio number, and is on our website. Secretive about our hours we are not. We don't do a traditional 9-5 so that people who do can come by after work and ...gasp!...pick up pictures. Actually, a lot of area shops don't open till 10, probably for the same reason.
DH ignores the comment, which is why he's out there and I'm selecting a friend for Jake. I hear him hand the man his photo order, and the guy remarks, "That doesn't seem like much!" Um, dude? You ordered three pictures back in JULY, and you're getting three pictures. They didn't atrophy over time, we didn't deduct pictures for a storage fee (hmmmm! note to self to look into that!), and if you think it doesn't look like much, maybe you should order more photos of your dimpled darling dancer daughter.
I was doing a slow burn. Actually, maybe this is why Jake got Rasputin.
Change of topic....
A small worrisome note...we're not sure where our feral kitty, Twilight, is. Yesterday morning he wasn't acting like himself. He didn't herd Jack, his favorite Scottie, nor did he leave his nest in the alpaca-fur-mulch in the front hedge area, not even for food and fresh water. When we checked on him, he looked at us sleepily but didn't budge. I joked that perhaps he'd been catting around the night before. Witty, no? No? Okay, have it your way.
But last night he didn't greet us by rolling around on the walkway as he usually does, and although food had been eaten, there was no sign of him at all. This on a very cold blustery evening, where he'd normally be scarfing down the kibble for warmth. This morning, still no sign, and the food was untouched.
So the DH, big softie that he is, and I are pretty concerned. If the weather had warmed up considerably, I'd say he was off hunting more interesting things to eat, but it was brutal last night, and the couple nice days we did have, he was still around. Maybe he's moved on, but it seems odd when he has steady food and water.
*sigh* I'll let you know if Twilight shows back up.
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Friday, February 20, 2009
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Lest We Forget
I'm the daughter of a history teacher. Dad had to give up teaching when he was a bit younger than I am now, and he suffered a stroke. Before that, he was articulate and persuasive. He saw history not as dull dates and events, but as the stories of people's lives. When you tell history from that perspective, I maintain that no one can remain indifferent. Washington and Jefferson put their pants on one leg at a time, and being able to think of them in those terms made everything they did both more human, and more awe-inspiring.
So today, the anniversary of arguably the most profound national event of my lifetime, it occurs to me that the true measure of 9/11 is not the massive event itself, but the myriad of personal stories and memories of that day. And being the historian's daughter, I wanted to get mine in writing too.
The morning of September 11, 2001, was beautiful. Many people have said that it was the kind of day that made you glad to be alive, and so it was. At that time, I was working part-time in a Behavioral Health Unit, and as I was driving to work, I was listening to the Imus in the Morning program. As I began to pull into the parking lot, there was a sudden report of a plane hitting one of the Twin Towers in New York City. At first, it was thought to be private plane. Bizarre, I thought, but who knows. A pilot might have had a heart attack, be suicidal...it would certainly be interesting to see what played out. I had no idea. None of us did. I turned off my engine, but left the radio on while I put on some lipstick before heading up the stairs to work. That split moment of time made all the difference, because Warner Wolf, an Imus regular, called in. He told Don that he'd seen the plane go by his apartment window, and it was no small aircraft, but a passenger plane, huge, and impossibly loud. He said from what he saw, it was no accident.
That changed everything. I turned off the radio, and bolted inside, going in an employee entrance, glad that I could because I didn't want to frighten any patients. One of the counselors in the practice, Peter, had a small television in his office, and I made a beeline there. He wasn't with anyone, and I told him to turn on his TV, quick, as I started to fill him in. Soon everyone not in a session was watching, having no idea just how much more surreal this day would become. We saw the second plane hit, and the towers crumble, one after the other, like eggshells. We saw the horror on the New Yorker's faces echoed on our own. And the rumors began of planes heading for Camp David, just to our north. One counselor got panicky...her child attended school near there, and she had to leave. No one blamed her. Then the word of Pentagon attack, just 60 miles from us. We all knew people there, or families that had members working there. It was all too much to take in. No one could turn away.
After we got the TV on, and saw the first tower burning, I called my husband. He was doing pro bono photography work for our local United Way's Day of Caring. He ended up being the one to break the news to all those people. After the second plane hit, I heard that one of them was believed to be from American Airlines. My ex flies for them, and I was suddenly terrified that he had been on that plane. Not a good relationship, ours, but still, he is the father of my children. I called his home, and kept getting a busy signal, but finally got his then-wife on the phone. He had gotten home late the night before, and was fine. I thanked God.
I left around lunch time, my shift being up, and went to our studio, where the DH waited for me. We held each other, and we cried. We couldn't turn off the radio; we had to constantly know what was happening. For days we all watched as the victims of the attacks, and the heroes who tried to save them were brought out of the rubble. And we cried. We began to hear those individual stories, the near-misses who stopped for a cup of coffee, or a band-aid, and missed being inside the tower. The persons who missed those flights, and the ones who made them. The phone calls, full of fear, resignation, and ultimately, messages of love for those who'd be left behind. And the incredible bravery of those who refused to let their flight be the instrument of evil. We all questioned our inner hearts, wondering what we would have done, who we'd have called, what we would have said. And we cried.
I remember, days after 9/11 as I sobbed yet again, saying to my DH that I wondered how I still could have so many tears left in me...that surely I should have cried them all out by now. And on every anniversary, as I watch ceremonies of remembrance, I think this will be the year that I'll finally be done grieving. I won't need to cry.
As this morning, and the writing of this post prove to me, this is not that year. Not yet.
So today, the anniversary of arguably the most profound national event of my lifetime, it occurs to me that the true measure of 9/11 is not the massive event itself, but the myriad of personal stories and memories of that day. And being the historian's daughter, I wanted to get mine in writing too.
The morning of September 11, 2001, was beautiful. Many people have said that it was the kind of day that made you glad to be alive, and so it was. At that time, I was working part-time in a Behavioral Health Unit, and as I was driving to work, I was listening to the Imus in the Morning program. As I began to pull into the parking lot, there was a sudden report of a plane hitting one of the Twin Towers in New York City. At first, it was thought to be private plane. Bizarre, I thought, but who knows. A pilot might have had a heart attack, be suicidal...it would certainly be interesting to see what played out. I had no idea. None of us did. I turned off my engine, but left the radio on while I put on some lipstick before heading up the stairs to work. That split moment of time made all the difference, because Warner Wolf, an Imus regular, called in. He told Don that he'd seen the plane go by his apartment window, and it was no small aircraft, but a passenger plane, huge, and impossibly loud. He said from what he saw, it was no accident.
That changed everything. I turned off the radio, and bolted inside, going in an employee entrance, glad that I could because I didn't want to frighten any patients. One of the counselors in the practice, Peter, had a small television in his office, and I made a beeline there. He wasn't with anyone, and I told him to turn on his TV, quick, as I started to fill him in. Soon everyone not in a session was watching, having no idea just how much more surreal this day would become. We saw the second plane hit, and the towers crumble, one after the other, like eggshells. We saw the horror on the New Yorker's faces echoed on our own. And the rumors began of planes heading for Camp David, just to our north. One counselor got panicky...her child attended school near there, and she had to leave. No one blamed her. Then the word of Pentagon attack, just 60 miles from us. We all knew people there, or families that had members working there. It was all too much to take in. No one could turn away.
After we got the TV on, and saw the first tower burning, I called my husband. He was doing pro bono photography work for our local United Way's Day of Caring. He ended up being the one to break the news to all those people. After the second plane hit, I heard that one of them was believed to be from American Airlines. My ex flies for them, and I was suddenly terrified that he had been on that plane. Not a good relationship, ours, but still, he is the father of my children. I called his home, and kept getting a busy signal, but finally got his then-wife on the phone. He had gotten home late the night before, and was fine. I thanked God.
I left around lunch time, my shift being up, and went to our studio, where the DH waited for me. We held each other, and we cried. We couldn't turn off the radio; we had to constantly know what was happening. For days we all watched as the victims of the attacks, and the heroes who tried to save them were brought out of the rubble. And we cried. We began to hear those individual stories, the near-misses who stopped for a cup of coffee, or a band-aid, and missed being inside the tower. The persons who missed those flights, and the ones who made them. The phone calls, full of fear, resignation, and ultimately, messages of love for those who'd be left behind. And the incredible bravery of those who refused to let their flight be the instrument of evil. We all questioned our inner hearts, wondering what we would have done, who we'd have called, what we would have said. And we cried.
I remember, days after 9/11 as I sobbed yet again, saying to my DH that I wondered how I still could have so many tears left in me...that surely I should have cried them all out by now. And on every anniversary, as I watch ceremonies of remembrance, I think this will be the year that I'll finally be done grieving. I won't need to cry.
As this morning, and the writing of this post prove to me, this is not that year. Not yet.
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