Photo of the Day: Knocking on Knickerbocker

as of a visit Monday, February 20, 2017

Vestiges of the 'olde' New York can still glimpsed in the corners and shadows if you only look or know where to look. Hints: ends of platforms, tucked up out of sight, and/or disguised as the years have 'progressed' by. Where once a door may have opened to a glamorous hotel, now commuters jockey for a spot to cram on a subway shuttle and try to ignore the rats frolicking in the trash on the tracks feet below.

 ~ photo by iPhone, some slight filters

Knickerbocker Hotel entrance as covered by The New York Times:
https://www.nytimes.com/2014/07/17/nyregion/behind-subway-entrance-to-hotel-knickerbocker-neither-arias-nor-opulence.html?_r=0

Taking Time ... to Explore the Past: Saturday with Cynthia

I showed a photo of a Fortune from a Chinese Fortune Cookie earlier this month:

Take time to relax especially 

when you don't have time for it.

Well, there's a lot bubbling under the surface at work that makes me feel like I don't have time to relax. In an ironic twist, it's pretty much one of the same projects that capped off my time/my sanity at my last job, but with even more crappy data, tighter deadlines, not a lot of technical support/infrastructure -- AND I have two other components of my job that I have to weigh higher. Because of a way overblown sense of responsibility, librarian learning and leaning, and foreknowledge of potential/inherited issues brought on my previous experiences, I can feel the clock ticking away loudly, much like Poe's Tell-Tale Heart. I also am having some serious work-related philosophical/office cultural/work-style issues, and so ...  I do work off hours. At home. Behind the scenes. In marathon stretches. Where it's quiet. Squeezed in around, you know ... my life. Or lack of one. A lot this "stuff" seems to be just MY perceptions, expectations, and feelings about professionalism in the workplace, or no one else seems to care, care to change, or grow-up, or REALIZE ... etc.

But enough venting. *I* have to be the Force that changes. So I am trying. Trying to make time to relax.

I have semi-new resolutions to which I'm trying adhere this year. And getting the above fortune was a reminder. It's now taped into the front of my Day Planner (yes kids, people still use old-fashioned paper/spiral-bound Day Planners), the final arbiter of my PERSONAL calendar, my appointment book, my ledger, and my reminder receptacle. I am trying to prioritize PEOPLE over work, even if I "think" I don't have time.

Case in point - Saturday, January 9th, my excursion to the City with Cynthia.

If anyone has a busier schedule than me, it's Cynthia, my friend from the Big J days- and it had been way too long. We managed to find a hole in her schedule and mine, a relatively good winter weather day, AND an activity that was affordable AND off the beaten tourist trap.

Cynthia's New Year 2016 rang in with probably the WINNING-IEST of photos, as she was working in Times Square as part of the event crew for the ball drop. Here she is on the rigging ABOVE the ball. Yeah. Hard to top that unless you are a pyro-tech, an aerial photographer, or one of the actual talent.

photo c. Cynthia

We both traveled into the subways at Times Square where I loitered under the Lichtenstein so long waiting due to delayed trains the transit cops began to get suspicious, I had three separate groups of people ask me for directions/ Metro Card help, and I came SO CLOSE to attacking a poor kid who is being trotted out by a Tiger Parent to pound away on a plugged-in Casio Keyboard to be a Tourist Honey Trap and shill for cash in the guise of being a "pianist." Because my goodness, the muscle memory in my fingers started twitching, my not-quite-perfect-pitch ears were ringing in agony, and my mother's AND my piano teacher's voices were screaming in my head about intonation, rhythm, ar-ti-cu-la-tion, and E-MO-TION. (In short, he's bad. DO NOT TIP HIM. Because he may be raising money for his family, but he is not doing the world a favor in the muuuu-sic department.)

Off we went down to the South Ferry stop. (Unfortunately, the OLD South Ferry station on the subway, because the beautiful new one had been wrecked during Hurricane Sandy.) We wended our way north and headed over looking for Stone Street. (Again, Mom, you'll appreciate this. I got my bearing faster and was reorienting Cynthia, a person who has been in NYC longer than me AND regularly works gigs in and around Wall Street. ME!)

Before we got to Stone Street however, we found Faunces Tavern - the oldest building in the City and a historic landmark.

After oohing and aahing at the history and architecture, we looked at the menus posted outside. Brunch was the order of the day, and since it's still a working restaurant,  the area was quiet, and we figured when would we have the chance again - we ventured in and it was so lovely.

There are two sides - the Tavern and the Bar. We ate over the Porterhouse Bar section, which was lovely and quiet and warm so we could catch up. We did NOT do the prix-fixe menu. It just doesn't make economical sense when you aren't drinking the mimosas or Bloody Marys.

I don't know what George Washington or his troops would have thought that I ordered a vegetarian chick-pea burger, with beet-root hummus, and a frisse salad with a side of fries,

 or that Cyn got a bunch of (day-themed) bison sliders,

and that we split them.

I don't how we timed it so well, but we finished up just as the bar filled up for Jazz Brunch.

For being the oldest building in Manhattan, the ladies room was well-appointed. Tight, but well-appointed.

Yes, I took pictures of the ladies room - because I loved the touches. The old tiles. The in-set sinks. The old gas lamp pipes retrofitted with Edison bulbs and cages.

But I REALLY loved this vanity. This wasn't the only old iron Singer Sewing Machine base that we'd seen used as a table base or seat, but I love the fact that the pedal was there, and that there were still things in the notions drawers on the side.

We did make it to Stone Street, which looked MUCH different than my last visit with Amelia and Christine. (Seriously, these were the crowds on Stone Street on Saturday afternoon.) I love exploring New York when the "crowds" are like this. You can be leisurely and focus in on a lot of things.

Cyn doing a selfie with the Bavaria Bier Haus Lion. I may have ambushed him with a full-body hug, but you have to catch the elusive Nettie photo-ops when they happen because I will not redo them. NOPE. I am no fool.

If you want an UBER fancy Brunch in the Wall Street area, apparently Harry's Cafe & Steak at Hanover Square is your bet. Yes, I took a picture of the menu. Because you have to see that there is a  place where Kobe Beef becomes affordable after what Porterhouses for Two go for. This IS the Financial District after all.

And then we went around the corner and I just stopped - because DELMONICO'S.  

THE Delmonico's.

 I mean, History.

We then walked up Williams Street and I turned into an architecture geek. There are so few pockets of ye olde New Yorke/New Amsterdam left, and this triangle of New York has seen so much and been part of so much of it - even within the last 15 years.

 Look at the windows. Look at the ... okay. I will stop.

As we got closer to our destination, I also kept finding little notable things like these horned seahorses,

 And my, what big ... globes you have there...

 Before heading up the stairs to the Smithsonian, we had to really think about this bench.

 Or not. (Neither of us won the lottery that night, but things aren't that bad.)

Cynthia's a good friend. 

She laughs at my jokes and thinks I'm funny.

Even when I make her walk some of Battery Park in the dusk and then we fly off in different directions as the work-week resumes.

Look, Lady, here's hoping we both get some Liberty soon to do it again.

  

And that we get as lucky with the crowds and weather.

 ~ photos by iPhone

Beware the Ides of March

RT @chicagoshakes: Caesar: The #IdesOfMarch are come. Soothsayer: Aye, Caesar, but not gone. –#JuliusCaesar pic.twitter.com/u0ifQw4qFc
— Folger Library (@FolgerLibrary) March 15, 2015

If you don't get why I think this is funny, I'm not sure we can be friends.

Quote of the Day: Unexpected Memories Lingered Beneath Words

As I work my way back to semi-regular blogging, I'm going to share some of the quotes from books I've been reading ... some of the random things that have perked my interest, and persuaded me to keep using this forum to share things, family history, etc.

"Over the years, Aunt Ailis had tried to lure Finnegan into the world of computers, the lines of software code that she studied as if they would give her a key to the inner workings of the human brain, if not heart. Finnegan understood the satisfaction she derived from the act of coding, her ability to aim for and achieve something she already she knew she wanted -- but for Finnegan, his interest in people's stories was always the unexpected memories that lingered beneath the words, waiting to come out. As far as Finnegan could understand, the purpose of coding was to create a form of stable perfection, a series of commands that could reproduce every time exactly what was intended. The opposite of humans, who were interesting to Finnegan precisely because of the way their narrative changed, hid other meanings, shifted with time and perspective.

 So he reached out and took the stories in, knowing that they had nowhere else to go, unable to refuse safe haven to memories that otherwise would disappear unnoticed. And yet, at times, he was overwhelmed by the weight of other people's lives, the stack of notebooks that surrounded his bed.

"You could publish them," Aunt Ailis suggested. But Finnegan knew, somehow, that wasn't the answer. What he had experienced in the transfer of these stories was as intimate as touch, a table for two in a crowded restaurant. Still, he didn't know what to do with them, didn't know who he was without them.

...

And so he sat in his room, surrounded. ... He sat on his bed and picked up one notebook after another, reading."

~ From Erica Bauermeister's The Lost Art of Mixing, pages 231-232

Emphasis throughout my own.

Photo of the Day: Oh, but for a wee bit of wind!

Thursday, August 8, 2013, Halifax, Nova Scotia

Historical Interpreters, The Citadel

Whoo, and there are 7!?

A Magical number, or so my Friends tell me.

Blogging is Time Consuming

Image from here

Blogging is time consuming. Even for someone unencumbered by responsibilities like spouses, offspring, or pets, there are only so many hours in the day to balance the many demands placed, or self-imposed, upon me. I am invariably dropping one ball or another in the great juggling act of life (sorry friends). I also want to experience things and be present in my life and not a slave to social media and this blog.

As technology has shifted to new mediums, I have seen some blogs shift completely away from this forum and/or be taken down from the Internet (I really hope they saved them in one form or another). Other have managed to somehow integrate networking streams and their lives a little more successfully than me. It's hard not to compare and contrast lots in life and to feel inferior to other people and their many accomplishments, presented both in real life and on the web.

I keep coming  back to my reasons for doing this in the first place - documenting my life for future generations.

It is not for revenue streams.
It is not for readership statistics.
It is not to compete in a popularity contests.
It is not a platform for a book/television/movie deal.
It is for my nieces and nephews and their offspring.

Yesterday evening, between the baking marathon that helps me de-stress and honestly, to bribe various people to like me, and the phone calls to some friends and family, I managed to catch up on some reading of an online periodical. I SHOULD have been finishing the Refrigerator Roll Recipe and/or "banking" more posts for the week, but I was prompted (I realize now) to catch up on my reading.

It was to find this article in the Deseret News. It was to extract these quotes to keep me on track and remember WHY I am doing this -- to keep me motivated to keep this blog going despite time constraints, writer's block, the dearth of readers, and the fact that it this a very public forum and I am actually a very private person.

Now, I don't usually post too many faith-heavy entries, but this one will definitely have a Mormon-slant, and I'll do my best to post links to explain the jaragon. The themes, however, are universal.

With thanks to the article’s writer, Trent Toone. The full article was published on February 21, 2013, and may be found at http://www.deseretnews.com/article/print/865573684/Tips-guidelines-and-principles-How-to-write-a-personal-history-your-posterity-cant-put-down.html 

Copyright 2013, Deseret News Publishing Company

Extracted for length and pertinence, all phrases bolded for emphasis are done by me and not in the original article. 

Tips, guidelines and principles: How to write a personal history your posterity can't put down

By Trent Toone, Deseret News, February 21, 2013

Regarding the book: “More To Your Story: Discover the Powerful Experiences You’re Already Having” by LDS Church leader, Elder W. Craig Zwick and his wife, Jan. Elder Zwick is a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy [See the hyperlinks for definitions of these LDS terms].

“…We believe it is impossible to overestimate the influence our own stories can have on us, our children and future generations,” the Zwicks wrote in the book’s introduction. “But if we and those we love are to benefit from these moments, we would be wise to ‘Treasure up … the words of life’ (Doctrine and Covenants 84:85), write them down and frequently recount them — thus making them part of our family lore and heritage.”

“There is power in teaching true principles the same way we learned them,” Elder Zwick said. “The purpose of all of us in mortality is to learn through our experiences, whatever they may be. Stories infuse our life with meaning. We are here to learn from our experiences. … For the experience to be meaningful to you, it needs to be verbalized or written. … Until you speak or write about it, it doesn’t have power in your life.”

Once an experience has been identified, don’t get too hung up on details or flowery words, focus on the feelings that were felt, Elder Zwick said.

“The real essence of the experience is what we felt in our heart,” Elder Zwick said. “It is not so much what you write, but the idea is to convey a feeling.”

For help on deciding what is appropriate and what isn’t, Elder Zwick pointed out two scriptures in the Book of Mormon.

Alma 37:8 states, “And now, it has hitherto been wisdom in God that these things should be preserved; for behold, they have enlarged the memory of this people, yea, and convinced many of the error of their ways, and brought them to the knowledge of their God unto the salvation of their souls.”

In 3 Nephi 27:23, it reads: “Write the things which ye have seen and heard, save it be those which are forbidden.”...

Notable author, Lee Nelson also has this wisdom about documenting your life …

… Nelson wrote: “How many departed souls are regretting that they didn’t write something down before it was too late? How frustrated are they that the too-brief stories of their lives, often written by people who didn’t know them, miss the mark by such a great distance?”

As he wrote his own story, his life made more sense.

“I began to see pattern and purpose instead of accidents and dead ends,” Nelson wrote. “As I wrote about regrets and mistakes … I began to see some of these events as wonderful learning opportunities preparing me for future events.”

Writing a personal history is not like writing an algebra textbook, he wrote, it is nothing more, or less, than telling stories of your life. Some are short and funny and some are longer and more serious. Sometimes you explain at the end of a story what you learned, sometimes you don’t, he wrote.

“There is no secret,” Nelson wrote, “It’s not hard, but it does take time and attention, usually over several years. It might go faster if I do it for you, but it might be better if you do it yourself. After all, you are the one who did all the research.

“The elements in great stories, the stories that never die, are the same elements we see in our own lives. The great stories parallel the lives of human beings. All of us are reluctant heroes or heroines engaged in life’s journey.”

Also from the News:

Elder Dennis B. Neuenschwander
"A life that is not documented is a life that within a generation or two will largely be lost to memory. What a tragedy this can be in the history of a family. Knowledge of our ancestors shapes us and instills within us values that give direction and meaning to our lives." (General Conference, April 1999) [AN note: emphasis my own]

And so, onward ... to keep trying to keep this up, to keep writing the stories, documenting the milestones, and articulating the oddities that are my life.

~ Auntie Nettie

Witness to my History, September 11, 2001-2011

As the tenth anniversary of September 11, 2001 drew nearer, I thought it was important to start documenting my own experiences of that day, and what it means for me now.

I have been through many of my grandmothers’ various letters, have spent time with my great-aunts and uncles, have seen the family connections to WWII in medals, uniforms, and honors, and actually wear a WWII-era family heirloom every day, but in all the time we spent together, a discussion of what they experienced on December 7, 1941 – when they learned of the attack on Pearl Harbor, never took place in my hearing, or, as far as I know documented for the family histories. Their lives, and their descendants’ lives, were shaped in ways that are still being felt. For that matter, I have no record of what my parents or aunts were feeling and experiencing on November 22, 1963, when President Kennedy was assassinated. These particular days shaped their generations.

This blog, while being entertaining for me and a few family members and other miscellaneous readers, is really intended to stand as a record for my nieces and nephews of my life. When they are older, I hope they can this personal history to inform and shape their understanding of their silly ol’ Auntie Nettie.

While I have noted the anniversary every year on the blog, I hadn’t ever really ever written down my perspective of events. In the early hours, days, weeks, and months, we—the nation and world—were all in a state of shock and survival. Survival often means coping; by carrying on, suppressing, or glossing over things. With the passage of ten years, it felt right to try and delve backward in time and try to articulate … something, anything, to put a personal connection on what the kids will soon be learning about in their history and social science classes.

Ten years after September 11th , (and I honor that day by not abbreviating the date, because it seems more proper somehow), so much has changed. It has been analyzed, fictionalized, and theorized countless times. Many of the major players have written their accounts, or been captured or killed. The political and physical landscapes have changed. Security procedures have changed. Words like “threat assessment,” “pat-downs,” and “watch-list” are part of new lexicon. So soon into a new decade and millennium, one simple fall day has ended up shaping and informing our world.

These are my recollections.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Let me preface this with some context. I was not in New York City that day. That particular chapter of my life had not yet started. Unfortunately, it was such a huge tragedy that no one went unscathed.

We all knew someone who was affected, or knew someone who was. We might not have realized that we knew someone, until the flyers for the missing went up – even as far away as my southern-Westchester County, New York commuter town. When parking lots emptied at the end of evening rushes that week, you began to notice the few cars that were never picked up. You noticed the flowers later placed upon them, and then marked their absence when the cars were finally towed away.

Years later, during a visit to a friend many states away, you’d freeze when looking out a second-story window of a bookstore, having not realized the location was in the direct assent flight path of local airport. Your friend would find you, pale, sweaty, and trying not to have a panic attack in the middle of the aisle, because, for one split second, you had the thought that the plane taking off was going to make a direct hit.

You watch planes in the skies more carefully. Is that one flying too low? Why? Is that its usual flight path? Is that a normal banking sound?

Even now, you worry for a former colleague’s husband, a New York City Fire Department officer, who responded to the calls that morning and wasn’t heard from for many heartbreaking hours. One of New York’s bravest, who after taking cover under his rig as the Towers fell, spent hours searching for victims and then days and months working on “the pile.”

Your now daily commute to New York City via Grand Central Terminal and the subways under Times Square are never quite “routine.” You have to remain vigilant – to “see something” to “say something.” You scan the fellow passengers while maintaining the New York look-through-you/I’m-in-my-own-world gaze. You begin to notice when the “usual” National Guards and NYPD officers are augmented by additional troops, SWAT teams, and sniffer dogs. You wonder what the “chatter” is saying.

But that is now.

This was then.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
2001

Ten years ago, I was living in my first solo apartment in a working-collar section of a suburban town. My little walk-in converted basement studio was cozy, at least to me. Everything was so close together, I could see the television from most vantage points. I was in the habit of half watching, half listening to the t.v. as I got ready to drive to work – at Caramoor those days.

I am pretty sure I was running late that morning. Most offices open at 9:00 a.m., but Caramoor was pretty relaxed, especially after the summer Festival, and I knew I could work late if needed. I wasn’t rushing to get ready, but I hoped to be out of the door no later than 9:00.

I think I was almost ready, certainly showered and half dressed, working on my hair and makeup, when the news was announced that there had been a plane crash into one of the World Trade Towers.

As a history minor in college, I knew that there had been instances of planes crashing into New York City skyscrapers, but those had been decades earlier. The likelihood of this being an accident? Let’s just say, I’m not quite a paranoid conspiracy nut, but a healthy sense of skepticism helps shift through news reports to find the various slants and agendas. A plane crash into such a large, looming landmark could have been an accident, if the plane had serious mechanical issues. But with the river and harbor right there? If the pilot could have avoided the skyline, he would have. My thought was that, of course, it had to be more malevolent, a hijacking gone bad, or something intentional.

Already running late, my preparations slowed down even more, but I continued to get ready for work.

I was still at home, watching the news, when the second plane hit.

I was watching a different channel, so I didn’t see either one of the now famous clips of that impact. In the hours, days, and weeks to come, because they were played over and over again, the impact is indelibly scorched into my minds’ eye. Out of self-preservation, grief, tribute, what have you … I started closing my eyes when the loop queued up to the section where the plane seemingly pauses and then accelerates into the second tower. It’s become an involuntary reflex – to close my eyes when that particular piece of footage comes up. I can’t escape the image though. What my eyes won’t see, my brain can’t erase. It is seared into my soul.

At that point, it was clear that these were no accidents. It was also clear that I was late for work. There was no protocol for something like this. You fall back into what you know. What I knew was … I was late for work, so I left the comforts of home, got in the car, and started the drive north to Katonah.

It has been remarked what a beautiful day it was. It was so, so beautiful – an early fall day, with that pristine sky blue that is unique to September in the New England/New York area, unmarred by clouds, with a light breeze to whisper over your skin, and no humidity to cast a pall over the your enjoyment. The hue of sky blue made the trees seem to glow, that last gasp of the high summer healthy green before they began to leech toward the autumn hues.

But I didn’t really notice any of that on my way up the highway. I was focused on the news reports coming in over my car radio, tuned to WCBS 880 AM.

Honestly, I don’t remember the drive that much, except for the growing lump in my throat and the dawning realization that nothing would ever quite be the same. I fought the tears. With my driving record, that was imperative.

I may have heard about the other planes in D.C. and Pennsylvania, but I don’t remember.

What I do know, is that I was in the car when the first tower came down.

My memory gets a bit hazy after that. I get snatches of images and sensations. Certain things are more vivid than others.

I remember sitting at a red light at a set of lights on the exit ramp of 684N, waiting to make a left turn. My car windows were open and I was listening to the news. There was a semi to my right, also waiting to make that left turn. I think the driver and I were both listening to the same reports. I have a recollection of turning my head and making eye contact with him, a shared “are we really hearing that the World Trade Center is coming down?” glance of disbelief, shock, terror, and primal sorrow. Planes crashing into the skyscrapers we could fathom. The towers collapsing? How was that happening? The light changed and traffic moved on, but I remember that shared glance.

By the time I ran my errand in town and got to the office, both towers were gone.

As can be expected, the office was abuzz. All of us who knew the latest were updating the others. I pulled out my radio to tune back into radio broadcasts, as in 2001 our internet connections were limited. The radio was a faster bet for up-to-the-minute information. We were all concerned for what this would mean for us, our families, but mostly concerned for our work family, especially our colleague/friend’s husband. We knew that as an FDNY officer he would be called in to the Command Center. Little did we know that he was already in the thick of it.

In the midst of this, my brother Jed called from Nevada where he was watching the coverage. I’m pretty sure it was a delay in his feed or they were replaying a piece, because I recall trying not to cry when I said something like “I think you are watching tape, because both towers are gone.” I told him those of us who had made it into work had decided to close the office for the day. No one was going to be productive, parents wanted to go get their children and hold them close, and we all needed to go home.

We weren’t the only office to make that decision that day.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Memories are tricky things. After a certain point, you don’t know what memories are distinctly yours, or what has been influenced, overwritten, or created by external forces. For something as momentous as September 11th and the weeks afterward, perhaps the best thing to call these testaments, is collective memory --one with lots of facets.

Like so many, I spent most of the rest of that Tuesday in front of the television. I tend to stay behind the curve of technology, so was still getting my television signals from aerial reception, in my case “rabbit ears.” Since I was close to New York City, I still could get about five to six channels just fine. Most of the major New York networks had large transmitter arrays set up on City skyscrapers, the majority on the Trade Center Towers. During the first attack on the WTC, the 1993 domestic bombing attack, network signals were interrupted – except for CBS. It was the only major broadcast company who had a transmitter set up elsewhere in Manhattan. Fast forward to 2001, the towers have collapsed, taking the transmitters with them. Once again, the only signal that I could receive was CBS. Between the radio and television reports, that day was shaped for me by CBS.

Other facets of my memories from that period:

Family and friends: I know I talked to my parents and both my brothers that day. We were sure that all of our extended family and friends were accounted for.

The only nagging concern in my work family was for Caramoor’s fireman. Late in the evening I got a call from my one of my co-workers, the only time that the office emergency calling tree had ever been put to use at that point, to spread the word that “our fireman” had been heard from, located by his extended blood-family of firemen, and that he had called home to reassure his wife. While all of us at work were relieved, our happiness was tempered by the growing knowledge that the losses stood to be horrific.

Work: Most of the rest of the week remains a blur. I know I went to work. I know we all tried to be productive. It was a time for taking stock, reshaping solicitation letters, and offering the arts as a balm to grieving souls.

The stories: I listened to the radio on the commute and I remember the personal and tragic stories of those searching for their missing loved ones. I heard stories about what happened to the other planes, the people on them – the children, the couples, and the heroes who took matters into their own hands. I heard the stories about the generosity of the Canadians who took in the stranded passengers of hundreds of diverted flights. Most of all, I remember the accounts of those who experienced little miracles – why they were delayed that morning, who overslept, had to run an errand, or were late to work for the first time ever.

The sky: That whole week, the sky was just that gorgeous clear blue. When we get skies and days like that now in early September, it is a bit bittersweet and a bit eerie. You are almost afraid to enjoy it, afraid to jinx the beauty of it, for fear it will be marred too. Because it was so clear that week, the cloud on the southern horizon made up of smoke from the fires at “the pile” was visible up into Westchester County, coming up via the air currents into the Hudson River Valley. There was a plume for days, casting a pall over the skies even that far north.

The what-ifs: September 11th was about more than New York City. The heroism of the passengers on Flight 93 cannot be underestimated or ignored. Without their sacrifice in bringing the plane down into a field in Pennsylvania, things could be very different. We all now have a standard for behavior on planes and a series of questions to pose to ourselves. Would we step up knowing what the costs would be? What calls would we make in the final minutes? Would you leave a voice message if no one picked up? Who would we call?

Most importantly, what would we say?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Post-2001

A few years later I was in Washington, D.C. for a library conference. We had to drive past the Pentagon to get to our hotel. The scars were still visible. By now, however, the repairs have been made, the paint faded into a cohesive hue, but the work covers a strong building, a sense of anger, purpose, sorrow, and dedication. And yet, the scars are still there – under the surface. I suppose that’s a metaphor for the whole nation. We all still have scars. Somewhere.

For all that I had taken many a trip into the City with my mother over the years, gone with school groups, or gone down for visits during and post-college, I had never visited the original Trade Center site, nor seen the Twin Towers in person. The five boroughs of New York are large, but I tend to stay north of Canal Street. I’ve only been that far into lower Manhattan three times, only once to the site. Ten years later, I still have mixed emotions about going.

For a long time, you couldn’t visit the area. It was cordoned off because of active investigation, recovery, and security concerns. Then it became a construction zone. I understand the impetus that drives people to see things for themselves, especially something as monumental as this was. You have to see and experience it for yourself, make that piece of the national zeitgeist your own.

For me though, it’s still hallowed ground. People died. People were saved. People sacrificed their lives. Even now the death toll mounts. More and more first responders, volunteers, and area residents are getting sick. The memorials all over the world reflect the first wave of deaths. The true scope of the tragedy are still rippling outward from the initial impact – like when a stone is thrown into a pond. The waves radiate outward, getting larger and larger. Who knows what the final count will be?

The first time, and thus far, only time I’ve ever been to the Trade Center area was to take a friend, so she could bear witness for her children – some of my honorary nieces and nephews. Since it was my first time being tour guide in that part of the City, I didn’t know else to get there, aside from walking south from Canal Street. She asked how we would know where to go. I said we’d look for the hole in the skyline and feel the vibe of the neighborhoods change. I had meant to be facetious, but it turns out I was simply prescient. At the time, there was definite vibe about the area that was just sorrowful, even that many years later.

My most recent trip that far downtown was a stroll over the Brooklyn Bridge last month. I headed east toward Brooklyn, the same route that so many took out of Manhattan that day. As I turned around and looked back, I didn’t even think that I should have been seeing the Twin Towers. I had a lovely day and adventure. It wasn’t until I came home and processed the photos that I realized what I should have been missing. It was a realization that my mental picture of the skyline has had a chance to shift. What once was looming large over the tip of the island, still shadows and informs my sense of the City, but like it, we’ve all continued to change, adapt, and survive.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Ten Years Later

In the history of mankind, a decade isn’t very long. Scars are still tender. As the commemorative coverage started to gear up, a lot of emotions starting swimming to the surface. Things that hadn't bothered me last year or even five years before are hard to process.

I have friends who have spent the last few years providing music, production coordination, and family assistance during the annual memorial services at the site. But call it what you will, avoidance, cowardice, self-preservation, denial? This year? I am retreating from the field and leaving the state.

I am going “home” for the weekend – to a house stripped to a hermit cell-like state, unplugged from social media, the internet, and away from the 24/7 cable television news-cycle with all the specials and retrospectives. I am not going to get a newspaper and I will not be turning on the radio.

This year September 11th falls on a Sunday, a holy day for most denominations. Rather than be distracted by the noise of the world, I think, for me a retreat to the scene of a safe, happy, and carefree childhood, visiting with dear friends, and enjoying nature is fitting and necessary. It’s important to take stock and appreciate what I have been given. I will be taking my moments of silence, remembering, and praying for peace.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Next generation

To my beloved nieces and nephews, for whom I’ve tried to record all this, what else can tell you that I’ve learned from this important anniversary?

Like my ancestors before me, all we can tell you that you just have faith and … carry on.

Random, horrific, terrifying, and previously unimaginable things happen, everyday, to good people for absolutely no reason. Life isn’t fair. Sometimes there isn’t an easy answer or even an answer at all. Every generation will have its challenges. It is how you rise above, and overcome them, that matters.

There is only one thing that will ultimately overcome all the evil of the world and it is the greatest thing of all.

Because of that, if and when the time should ever come? I know exactly what I would say:

I love you.

Xo
Auntie Nettie