Where were YOU?

Every generation has one – a day in history that was so powerful that they remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when the news broke…whether it be good news or bad, it makes such an indelible impression that the question “Where were YOU?” can bring up vivid memories and incite the same emotions that surfaced at that moment.

For my generation, it was September 11. You don’t even have to say the year, because for us, it was a before and after situation. Before September 11, and after September 11. It was a division of time between the world in which you felt safe and secure, and one in which you knew that evil had a face…and that face may be as benign as the nice young man next door.

I was driving to a job site, leaving behind my two boys until it was time for school. My favorite morning radio show was somber as I tuned in, and Jackie was saying, “A second plane has hit the World Trade Centers.” To say the very least, I was confused. A SECOND plane? I spent the rest of the ten minute drive listening intently to find out why in the world a plane had hit the WTC, much less TWO planes. It must be a mistake!?

I came inside the building and asked if anyone knew what was going on. Not having television at the site, they were as much in the dark as I was. They were hanging on the words of customers that were coming in, giving bits and pieces of the story. We scrounged up a radio and picked up the only station that it would find in our remote area. We would relay the information to other employees in the building.

The world seemed surreal. There was only interest at this time, as it was so completely out of left field that I don’t think that we truly believed it. And then a third plane hit the Pentagon.

My brother being in the Air Force was suddenly my only concern. We had no idea at that time if there were more planes poised to take out American buildings. We had no idea how long it would last, who was attacking us, or how to defend ourselves. I envisioned planes being scrambled and into the air to combat the phantom enemy, of months of war. I needed to speak to him before it became difficult to do so.

I got the answering machine. I left a strange, rambling message that ended in tears. At his end, they didn’t even know that there was a problem. CJ had been watching cartoons, and kids’ channels were the only ones that hadn’t broken in with live coverage. He got out of the shower and heard my message, calling out to Sis…”Turn on the TV! There’s something going on!”

I was talking to him when the first tower crumbled. He was incoherent as he told me that the tower had fallen. Incredulous, I simply could not wrap my mind around it. “How man floors fell?” I asked.

“All of them!” he replied. “All of them. The whole top of the building is gone!” I simply could not believe it.

When it was time to get the boys up for school, I hurried home and turned on the television. This was the first that I had seen of the damage. I arrived just in time to watch the second tower collapse in on itself. I remember thinking that it had to have been a planned job. I could not even imagine that the building could come down. Surely, it had to have been wired to explode.

I dropped off the kids in a trance, not wanting to leave them there…but wanting things to be as normal as possible. Until we knew more, it seemed the wisest thing to keep them in the dark somewhat.

The day became a blur from that point, with snatches of news coming in. I was doing the books, and could barely concentrate. A task that should have taken two hours took me the entire day…and I spent the next week correcting mistakes that I had made.

Addy came out of the school that afternoon proudly carrying a grasshopper impaled on a stick.

Impaled. I freaked.

“Do you have any idea what you have done?!? You have TORTURED and MURDERED that grasshopper!” I was barely contained and probably being looked at sideways by the other parents. I was crying and made him take it back out to the playground and find a nice burial place for it. He returned with tears in his eyes, as he had seen the blood when he took the grasshopper off of the stick. I’ve always taught the boys that killing something for the sake of killing it was wrong, regardless of whether it was a bug or a bird or a person. I think that lesson really hit home that day.

It was that day that tore our world apart, and it’s never been the same since. It will never be the same. It simply can’t, now that we know.

You know how things are supposed to work. We watch movies that chronicle doomsday in any number of ways. I could never have imagined THIS. To think that the President was aboard Air Force One for safety, flying about the country so as to remain a moving target. The Vice President was in a bunker. And I know that they felt isolated and wanted to be where they could be the most help, not hiding away.

As with any disaster, I was glued to the television. What impressed me most was that Rudy Guiliani was on television all day…into the night, as I stayed up until the wee hours…and then when I arose with the sun, he was still on television. To have taken his responsibilities that seriously, to have been available around the clock, showed what a caring and dedicated man he is.

In the days that followed, I was proud of the response of the American people. On September 12, we were ONE. We cared, we reached out to one another. We stood proud and strong and tall. In spite of it all, the thing that I took from that day was the sense of pride in our country.

I felt such overwhelming gratitude to be where I was. I had recently returned from a business trip that took me across the country. Planes that fateful day were set down wherever they were when the FAA decided to shut down the skies. Travelers were left stranded in airports that they had not even intended to go to. That could have been me, left in Cincinnati or Detroit or Hoboken, without hope of reaching my family.

I was touched by the heroism that coursed through the veins of nearly every American. Those who sacrificed to be at Ground Zero helping in any way that they could. Those who gave their lives in doing so. Those who brought down a plane in a field instead of allowing it to be used as a weapon of war.

Make no mistake, this was an act of war. I think that this has been forgotten in the rhetoric of politics. This was an attack on our own soil. The enemy may not wear the uniform of any formal army, but it was an army nonetheless. To expect them to pay the price for this attack is reasonable, even if it means hunting them to the ends of the earth, across borders. I do not delight in war, nor do I condone violence in any situation. But you cannot stand by and watch as evil triumphs. You have to draw the line when it comes to what will be tolerated, and what will not. I think that in many ways, it is our “as long as it doesn’t affect me” attitude is what made us most vulnerable to this attack. We have to say NO once in awhile.

To protect our homes, our families, and our liberty.

The Book of Mormon is very clear on the acceptable reasons for war. It is not entered into lightly, and it is not to gain power or possession. It is allowable and acceptable when it is necessary to protect our homes, our families, and our liberty, that we might continue to worship God.

Regardless of what side of the aisle you fall on, I think that President Bush was a remarkable man in the days following this horrific event. He brought the nation together in an unprecedented way, declaring war on the powers that support acts of terrorism. He said NO. He praised those characteristics and behaviors that we look to in our heroes. He recognized those that were contributing to the healing process.

More importantly, he brought the nation to it’s feet…and encouraged us to our knees. Never before had we needed the guidance and comfort of our Maker as we did at that time. He openly and freely invited worship and prayer. He didn’t tell us how, or whom to pray to. He simply asked that we do it.

The images that will stay with me forever…of course, the firemen raising the American Flag…President Bush on Air Force One, talking on the phone as he gazed into the clouds…John McCain pausing on the steps to pray with the American people…a young couple stranded in an airport, holding their infant close to them as they awaited word on when they might return home…astronauts watching the World Trade Center burn from space…planes lined up at the airport…candlelight vigils.

I woke this morning and turned on the television to share in the remembrances of this day, only to find that the day was all but forgotten. A mention here, a comment there. No one was wearing their red, white, and blue. No one even seemed to notice that this was the day that ripped our lives into BEFORE and AFTER.

A mere eight years after the event, we have politicized, polarized, and then obliterated the heaven that came out of that day. I am saddened that we have so easily set aside our anger towards the terrorists, and turned it on one another. Our country could not be more divided today…when it was but a few short years ago that we couldn’t have been more united.

How did we get to here?

I wore my red, white and blue today. I put on my flag pin and I remembered the day even if no one else cared. I said a prayer for the brave souls that CONTINUE to protect us even though there are so many who criticize them for doing so. I remembered those that we lost that day…in body, or in spirit. The lives that were lost, and the lives that were damaged beyond repair.

My favorite radio morning show was on again, and just as they did 8 years ago, they covered September 11 with the personal, heartfelt style that I have come to know and love. They may be raucous and crazy on any other day, but they helped me to cope with all that we were forced to endure at that time, and today, they honored that memory. Way to go, Kiss FM! It’s good to know that at least one media outlet has set aside their politics for this day.

There’s still tomorrow. Let’s celebrate September 12 as we did eight years ago. Let’s band together as Americans, young and old, republican and democrat, rich and poor. Let’s champion the indomitable spirit of the scrappy American. Let’s just say no to the evil that surrounds us. Let’s love one another the way that we did AFTER. Let’s try to go back to a time when it wasn’t about the individual, but rather about the collective.

Back to the way that it should be. Come on. I dare ya!

A Moment to Myself

I am living the life of a single parent.

Oh, no, there’s nothing wrong with me and Hubby! I’m staying at Bro’s house, taking care of his three children while he and Sis attend a conference out of town. The girls, CJ and Allie, are 10 and 8, and JJ is 4. I also brought along Todd, who adores his cousins and is a wild man playing with them.

But that presents some logistical problems. We’ve had a lot of fun playing, doing crafts, and hanging around the house, but we can’t stay cooped up forever. They need to get out and about some, and that means taking all four of them in the van…to someplace PUBLIC. LOL Not really a problem, as the girls are really cute with JJ and Todd, and mother them so that I can just direct the crowd where I need them to be.

The problem comes in when you have to go out for just one thing. Yesterday, we ventured to Hobby Lobby and Wal-Mart to stock up on craft supplies, goodies, and necessities. We got some hot dogs for dinner and headed to the bakery section to get some buns. Everyone was getting crazy by then, and when I saw the batteries that we needed, I dropped them in the cart and headed for the exit. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized that we still needed buns!

So…do I serve them hot dogs on bread and hope that they are okay with that? Do I drag the whole group back to Wal-Mart? Is there a mini-mart somewhere that I could dash in to? Leave them in the car? NO. That would make me crazy. Have the girls run in and get it? NO. They are living in a brand new area that none of us knows well yet and I couldn’t feel good about that.

We ended up eating leftovers and we’ll get hot dog buns next time we end up at Wal-Mart. It’s a different situation for me, as I usually have hubby at home, so I can leave Todd with him, or better yet – send Tux to the store to get what I need.

Most of the time, things go really well. They all jump on the trampoline, play quietly in their rooms (or not so quietly, but still happily), or watch TV. We walk to the park to play, or some other group activity. It gets crazy when one or more members of the group want to do something different, or definitely DON’T want to do what the others are doing.

And then there is the matter of quiet time. The kids are missing their parents (including Todd, who cries on the phone with Daddy and his brothers), and that means that they need some extra special attention. I also have to make sure that they eat somewhat nutritious meals (Aunt Jaycie did NOT promise that she wouldn’t feed them a lot of junk food during the week!), get enough sleep, and that the house is not completely and totally trashed. I spend the bulk of the day entertaining, comforting, cleaning…and then when it’s time for me to put everyone to bed and have some ME time…they are needing some lovin’. I’m happy to give it to them, but after a few days, I’m missing my blog, my Facebook time, and our family website! Not to mention the daily sojourn with Digifree, where I stock up on fun digital scrapbooking supplies.

And because my brother is military and we are surrounded by others in similar situations, it truly makes me appreciate military wives all the more! I know that Sis is often alone, when Bro is TDY for long periods of time. She does this for months on end sometimes, never having a reprieve or another parent to leave the kids with (or send the kids away with) for a moment’s peace.

Add to this the pressure of adjusting to a new area every couple of years, which means new routines, new friends, new surroundings. In this move, they even crossed the country, which means a different culture and different weather.

Before they left, I noticed that she sneaks out occasionally to weed the yard. That’s her thing here, they said. It’s therapeutic and allows her that down time, time to think. Time to regroup in her own head. She’s been lucky so far, as Bro is close to home, but the day will come.

It makes it all the more important to have a network of good friends that can help out. Trade babysitting, run errands, just to have adult conversation with!

Of the many things that I admire about military wives and Sis specifically, I have to point out one that you might not even consider. I have lived in my home for about 8 years. I still do not have all of the décor on the walls! Some rooms are decent, others a little bare. I just can’t decide what I want to do or can’t commit to anything.

Sis has lived in this house for three weeks. It is perfectly decorated with all of their things. It looks very much like the home that they had when CJ was born, and with the furniture being the same, it almost feels like that home, but without the humidity!!!

I have the luxury of taking time to make my home HOME. Military families move so often, and need the continuity of their home…and it makes it incredibly important to make it home immediately, especially for the children. I can see where it would make even the parents feel better about their new digs, too!

So today, I say hats off to military families everywhere! We appreciate their sacrifices, both great and small, on our behalf. And to all of you single moms, my heart goes out to you! Whatever brought you to this place, you are a saint to take on the task of raising a family alone.

Now, I must go, for the little boys are quiet…and that is never a good sign!!!

Hometown Heroes

This photo was taken on the 15^th of September, 2001. My dad, a Captain in the fire department of our city, was at the main intersection working the “Boot Drive”, where the firemen were collecting money to send to the families of the fallen in the World Trade Centers. They had the ladder truck set up, a flag flying on top, and a this large flag across the side of the ambulance. It was really touching to see them holding out the boots to passing cars, and to see the passengers fill those boots with change and dollars by the fistful.

I wanted to follow up on my thoughts for Memorial Day. I know that the holiday is intended to celebrate those who have given their lives (and I say literally as well as figuratively!) in the service of their country. But they are not the only heroes that we need to celebrate. You don’t need to wear a patch on your arm to have honor. (Name that movie quote!)

There are plenty of other folks that serve every day for our country. We spoke of them on the National Day of Prayer, and I was so touched that the pastor remembered them in his prayer. Fireman, policemen, dispatchers, utility workers…the list goes on and on.

We live on a spit of sand that is surrounded on three sides by water. One side is the Pacific Ocean. We also live in a subduction zone, which means that at any moment, the tectonic plates that are always grinding against one another as one plunges beneath the other may slip…and we are in for the so-called BIG ONE. We live with the threat of tsunami every day. Even if the earthquake is far from here, we could experience a wave that would inundate our city, which is only 12 ft at it’s highest point.

When I was a young adult, we had our first tsunami warning. It was from an earthquake far out in the ocean, but was considered serious enough to evacuate the city. Dad called Mom to tell her to take us and leave. We had about five hours warning, so we were able to load the car with what was most valuable to us, as well as some supplies, before leaving. We had to leave Dad behind. As a city fireman, he was expected to stay in the city to evacuate any housebound residents or those in need of medical attention. They would be the last to leave the city. Thankfully, it was a false alarm, and the wave was only 1 ft tall when it came ashore.

A fireman’s family sacrifices every day without really knowing. We grew up in the Fire Department, so we didn’t know that it wasn’t normal to have your dad jump up from dinner and go rushing out without eating. Or to be awakened by the sound of the tones that call the fireman out in the middle of the night, and hear his truck roar down the road. To have him miss school functions and special events because he was unable to leave the station. To never celebrate the Fourth of July with a big family evening, because he was always out fighting fires set by other celebrants. To have him gone for 24 hours at a time while he was on duty.

We opened gifts on Christmas morning before the roosters, because Dad was on duty that day and had to be done by 8AM. We opened gifts late Christmas morning because Dad was coming off duty and stayed a bit later so that another fireman could have a nice morning with his family.

We were lectured about doing crazy stupid teenage things, because my mother would never forgive us if my father had to scrape us up off of the pavement because we had been disobedient. We often got lectures about what someone else had done wrong, and that Dad had to work on in the ambulance.

Ironically, we did scare Dad a couple of times on that account. Not through our own stupidity…we were far too scared to do THAT. I was dating a volunteer firefighter when I was in high school, and we were coming home from a dance at the school. Just ahead of us, a car had driven off of the road and flipped on the rocks below. We stopped to help.

I was smart enough to call my mother and tell her that I was AT the accident, but not IN the accident. We forgot to have the station tell my dad that, as he raced to the scene in the ambulance. He arrived and found my date with his jacket off, shirt untucked, hair whipped wildly by the wind, pointing paramedics towards victims lying on the rocks.

Dad took a deep breath and stopped him to ask where I was. I’m sure that he was relieved to find out that I was comforting the ones that had crawled back up on the slope on their own.

A few years later, my brother was riding in a small Volkswagon Rabbit with 6 other kids. No, they were not all seat belted! In fact, my brother and another girl were laying across the laps of the three passengers in the back. When they came face to face with a truck coming around a curve, my bro took one look and passed out. He didn’t even remember the impact. He broke the arm of the other girl laying across the laps, as she put her arm out to stop him from flying through the windshield.

Once again, my dad was on the call. He was irritated when the ambulance pulled up to the scene and the high school principal stood in front of his door and began to brief him on the accident. He wanted nothing more than to get to the kids and start assessing their needs. It wasn’t until Dad’s partner returned and told him that his son was in the accident, but unhurt, that the principal moved.

Because the fire department shared a lobby with the police department, the firemen knew a great deal about what was going on in town and who was or was not a ‘bad guy’. Dad always threatened to run a check on any boy that I dated! He scared a lot of them.

One night, a young man and I were saying good night at the door. (For a long time, I’ll admit.) Apparently, the tones had been called out, and the next thing that we know, the door flew open and we jumped apart. Dad barked, “You are gonna have to move your car!” and that boy jumped. He was so freaked out that he turned the wrong way at the end of our road, trying to get away from Dad!

We also had some really wonderful experiences, though, while our Dad served the city and the residents there. One Christmas Eve, a man had a heart attack and was taken to the hospital. Because he had four children at home, the firemen and their families jumped to help the children celebrate the day anyway. They found funds to go shopping for gifts, food, and a tree (which had yet to be purchased by the destitute family), then arranged with local merchants to open their doors for a special shopping excursion. I was a teen at the time, and I babysat the firemen’s children as they did this good deed. We all had a wonderful Christmas!

We often read our father’s name in the paper, when they saved lives. We grew up as a part of a close knit family of brothers in arms. We were proud of what our fathers – or mothers – were doing, and were happy to do what we could to facilitate their service. The fire families stood by one another, socialized, and came together in crisis. When storms would tear apart roofs, knock out the power, and topple trees, we would all gather at the fire station. It was warm and dry there, with the generators going. We could play and talk together. Meanwhile, our firemen would don their gear and go out into the storm to do what they could to comfort – tarping a roof, boarding a broken window, helping the bedridden get to warm surroundings.

During a storm last winter, our firemen were asked to stay at the station for days on end, as the power was out and the city had been isolated by fallen trees. There were literally no routes out of town. We are a small city, and that meant that access to the local hospital was also blocked. Dad was worried about any major health concerns, as they would have to deal with them locally until the roads were clear.

I know first hand the compassion that these men and women have. Having taken two trips in the ambulance myself, I have been a recipient of their kind and reassuring touch. My first trip was for an ovarian cyst that had me in so much pain that I could hardly speak. After four tries at painkillers, they finally had me comfortable and able to transport. The paramedic laughed as we pulled out of town, saying, ‘What a great job…getting the boss’ daughter stoned!’

The second trip was much further, as they transported me to the University Hospital 3 hours away. I was 32 weeks pregnant with the baby, and my water had broken. They had no idea if I would deliver on the trip, or if they would have complications with the baby…it was a little scary for all of us. My dad got to ride with me, though, and that made it much easier. He joked and laughed with me, inviting the nurse and paramedic to join in, and soon, I was laughing and relaxed.

My poor dad also has to put up with his grandchildren running to him with every bump, bruise, ache, or rash, and asking him what it is. Many a night, we have had to run to Dr. Poppa to show him something!

He has seen macabre accidents, murders, and sudden death. He has walked into fires that would singe your eyebrows. He has given his life to be of service to his fellow men. I know that the same can be said of those who are in law enforcement, medical personnel, and emergency staff. The utility crews who brave the weather to restore power so that we can watch TV…which seems to be the thing that folks miss most when the power is out. (so that they can see the news coverage of the storm – pretty funny!)

Take a moment to thank a hometown hero for all that they do to keep us safe at home!

Remembering those who serve

One of my favorite childhood memories was of a Fourth of July Parade on our street. Sadly, we lived in a small town, and there was no city parade scheduled. I am resourceful. I planned my own parade.

My brother was to ride his bike, pulling a float behind him. The “float” was a box filled with dirt, if I recollect correctly, and sported one of my dolls holding a baby. She was a war widow. How I knew about war widows at that time, I’ll never know, but there she was. A cassette tape recorder played a rousing rendition of patriotic music sung by yours truly, recorded earlier. I followed behind, twirling a baton. We both dressed in red, white, and blue.

Our parade went all of the way up the street, which was less than a block long, and back again. Never mind that no one was there to watch. One neighbor came out and was thrilled with our parade and took pictures of us. Maybe no one was home. But we were doing our duty for our country anyway.

Another wonderful memory is of a show that we put on as cousins one summer. The big finale was a number in which our stars danced on a table and we threw rose petals as we all sang “You’re a Grand Old Flag” at the top of our lungs. What a great song that is! So rousing! I still sing it occasionally at the top of my lungs.

We’ve always been a patriotic family. We believe in this country, and the ideals that it was founded on. We love the stars and stripes. When Tuxedo Boy was about 5, he saw a flag vest at Wal-Mart, shopping with Grandma. “We have to get one of those!” He said. “My mudder would WOVE one!” He was right. I loved that vest that he gave me for my birthday.

My home is decorated in Americana. I was afraid to do it at first, thinking that I would wear it out, get sick of the Grand Old Flag. I haven’t! In this home that we have been in for seven years, we were lucky to have had an Eagle nest hovering over our backyard. We have watched the baby Eagles learn to fly, and watched the parents return year after year to reign majestically.

We are not a grave-visiting family. My extended family does so, but it’s just not something that my immediate family took up. We believe that memorials are something that should be celebrating the life of someone, rather than the death. They are not in that grave, anyway, and we can commune with them and be grateful for them anyplace. We’re also a thousand miles from most of the family graves, so that may have something to do with it!

We don’t wait for Memorial Day to remind us to be grateful for the sacrifices that have been made on our behalf. We are truly grateful, every single day, for the families who have given much to maintain our way of life.

There are those who lost their lives fighting for the United States…my grandmother’s brother who died at the Battle of the Bulge. I don’t think that she ever got over that loss, nor did my great-grandmother. My husband’s great-grandfather came home intact…at least physically. His scars were emotional, and his family said that after his return, he would sit on his mother’s lap and she would rock him. He was over six feet tall. He accidental death shortly after is somewhat questioned by his family. Perhaps the pain was just too much to bear and he took his own life at that time. An uncle who returned from Viet Nam, never to speak of his experience there. A friend who died in the Gulf War, leaving behind a beautiful widow and two equally gorgeous baby girls.

Our current military continues to sacrifice. My brother has taken his turn in Iraq and elsewhere throughout the world, leaving behind his family, as has a cousin that recently came home. Each time they leave, it is understood that they might not return. They prepare for such an eventuality…and always hope that this time, it might not be. We have gratefully, thankfully, been spared that pain. I can’t even imagine how I would cope with that loss! But that does not mean that their family…and extended families…have not suffered.

His children have spent long periods of time without him. His wife has had to be a single parent many times. Their relationships are strained as the coming and going is dealt with, the distance to be overcome. They are often unable to plan basic family vacations, for fear that these plans will be changed at a moment’s notice.

The day to day strain of the military is also a sacrifice. They never settle in one area for too long. They have to make friends quickly in each area, only to leave them behind very soon. They learn to keep in touch with those that are no longer available to you every day. Their home is never their own, and may or may not fit their home décor.

And all so that we can continue to enjoy the freedoms granted us by this country.

We are thankful for each and every one of them. The ones that go TDY, the ones that stay home. The MP that keeps my sister in law safe on base while my brother is away. The wives who band together to make life bearable for one another and the children that they share. For those who served many years ago, and the ones who do so today.

We have a dear friend and adopted family member who served in France. He tells of a time that they were on duty and heard music coming…a group of local youth had made cakes (in a time of flour rationing) and came out to bolster the American troops that were there to protect them. He then got tears in his eyes when he talked of how France has forgotten what the Americans did there. So many of our men never came back from those fields.

In the recent batch of family pictures that I have been deciphering, there is one family that is eluding me. Franklin T. Brown, Sr, died in March of 1945 in Germany. I have a beautiful picture of his family, a smiling wife and two adorable boys. The boys would still be alive, having lived some 60 years without their father. I have a photo of his gravesite. I don’t know when he was born or his parents, even his wife’s name. I did find the location of the grave. He is buried in Luxemborg. Even his body was lost to the family.


Yes, it’s true that they are not truly there in the grave, and that gravesites are not the only place to memorialize someone. But how heartbreaking to not even be able to say goodbye. Communication was not the same as it is today. His wife may not have heard for days or even weeks after his death. She may or may not have had any contact with him during the time that he served.

I am appreciative of today’s technology that allows our service men and women to freely communicate with their loved ones. Email, webcams, digital photography and videography allow them to share experiences on both sides of the conversation. Our service folks get to take part in their family’s life, and talk a bit about what they are doing. We have come so far.

Someday, I’ll find out the name of the pretty lady who raised those two boys without Franklin. I may even find the little boys whom I have so many pictures of. I hope that their lives were healthy and happy and that they were rewarded in some way for the sacrifice that they made for ME.