A Moment of Silence on September 11th

Led by President and Mrs. Obama on the White House lawn, the nation observed a moment of silence at 8:46 a.m. on September 11, 2015, in remembrance of our countrymen lost in 2001.

Steel beams in shape of a cross found in the rubble

On every 9-11, the wound reopens, the images resurface.  Each of us knows exactly where he was when he heard the news that our nations was un-
equivocally under attack.

In the northeast and mid-Atlantic corridors of this country, the tragedy was personal.  Inhabitants still name those lost from their town.  Businessmen still retell of fate calling them to an unexpected meeting that morning, while the rest of their team perished in a tower. Children still kiss their missing parents' photos, as memories fade.  Military personnel still grieve their co-workers.  Stories still bounce and carom of those who were in one of the tragic locations on 9-11-2001.

At 8:46 a.m. that day, Charley and I were at home in Massachusetts, watching The Today Show.  A repairman was working on our television.  When Katie Couric announced a plane had hit the north tower of the World Trade Center, we assumed a small plane had malfunctioned and veered off-course.  When she announced a second plane had hit the south tower, there was no doubt in our minds: we were under attack. The three of us stood with mouths open in our kitchen, waiting for the next flashes across the television.

"Where's Todd?" I said to Charley.  The previous month our younger son had spent a week in training for Lehman Brothers at the top of one of the towers.  The week of the attack, he and other trainees were on the twenty-sixth floor of the American Express Building, connected to the north tower by a catwalk.

"I don't know," Charley said.  We called his wife, Trish, in their rental apartment on Grand Street.

"I haven't heard from him and can't reach his cell phone," she said.  "As soon as I hear, I'll call you."

The phone rang.  It was our older son.  "Where's Todd?" he demanded.

"We don't know.  Are you in the City?"

"No, I'm in Jersey today. Call me as soon as you hear anything."

Todd had seen the first plane ACCELERATE past the windows of the American Express Building.  "Let's get out of here!" he yelled.  "There was no doubt in our minds it was an intentional act," he said later.  He found the stairs and ran down twenty-six flights with his peers and team leader.

Inside St. Paul's Chapel

On the pavement, the scene was horrific. The south tower had been hit at 9:03 a.m.. People were screaming and stampeding in every direction.  Employees had begun jumping from the north tower.  Without a working cell phone, Todd headed up Broadway.

In forty-seven minutes after it was hit, the south tower crumbled.  By then, the Pentagon had also been attacked.  Todd found a rotary pay phone and called Trish.  As ash billowed through the streets, thousands flooded the pavement under their apartment, attempting to escape over the Williamsburg Bridge into Brooklyn.

At 10:00 we heard from Trish.  "He's ok," she said.  "He's walking to our apartment."

"Thank god!" was all I could say.  "His brother's been calling, so we'll let him know.  Are you all right?"

"Yes, now that I know where he is!  I'll stay in touch with you."

Trish and Todd could not leave the City for days.  The ash from the collapse of both towers had made the area below 14th Street, where they were living, unsafe.  Eventually the American Express Building, along with others in the immediate area of the World Trade Center, was condemned.

A firefighter's gear left in remembrance in St. Paul's Chapel, where first responders rested.

When they were able to leave, Trish and Todd arrived at our Massachusetts home.  While I held Trish, Charley hugged Todd.

A moment of silence wasn't nearly enough!

"We Do Not Have Crime Here"

     "Oh My God," yelled Dee, stumbling into the suitcase she'd left on the floor.  She'd flown
overnight from Miami to Venice, transferred to Naples, and taken a seventy-five-minute ferry ride to the island where she'd taken up residence.  "Where's my TV?"
     She darted like a chicken without a head around the living room/dinette/cooking space.  "It was right on this table when I left for the States.  And where's the cable box?"
     She dived under the tablecloth that hung from the TV table.  "Damn!  He got the computer, too!"
     Dee ventured upstairs to her bedroom.  Everything was still in place, but her clothes hung at odd angles in the closet.  They'd been slashed.
     Of Italian heritage and fluent in the language, Dee refused to be a pushover.  She dialed 1-1-2 for the Carabiniere (state police) on the island.
     "Carabiniere," someone answered.
     "I'd like to report a robbery in my home," Dee said in Italian.
     "Not possible.  There are no robberies on Ischia.  Everyone's door stays open."  The phone went dead.
     Dee came out of her apartment like a boxer out of her corner.  She went down the whitewashed steps to the street beneath her apartment and wound down to the marina.

     "Taxi," she yelled.
     The driver deposited her at the Carabiniere Station.  Dee explained what had happened and filed a report.  "We'll come in the morning," the officer said.  "This is a very serious charge - we do not have crime here."
     "And you've never heard of Mafia in Napoli, either," Dee said under her breath.
     Two twenty-year-olds appeared in uniform the next day.  They stood open-mouthed, staring at the closet where Dee's clothes hung in shreds.
     "There is no crime on Ischia," one said.
     "I know who did it," Dee said.  "I filed a report last winter.  He rents above me and put his cable dish on my terrace while I was in Florida.  I pulled it down when I came back and he told me I'd find my apartment gone this spring.  Check your files, you'll find my report. There was a witness."
     "I'm sorry, Senora, we have no proof."
     After they left, Dee spun on the heels of her Birkenstocks.  This time she told the taxi driver to drop her at the island's newspaper office.  She supplied the reporter with her police report and photos from her closet and TV table.  "I will not be intimidated," she said in her final statement that ran on page one.
     The following week, Dee had the creepy feeling someone was stalking her. She whipped around and snapped a photo with her phone.  The tenant who rented above her was in the photo.  She continued to the fruit stand to test melons.  When the alleged robber began yelling at her across the cherries, she snapped
another photo.  This time he was in snarling position.
     She called a Neapolitan lawyer who worked for the American Embassy.  "What happened next?" I said.
     "Nothing.  Italians talk and talk but they don't do anything.  The landlord's a strong-arm lawyer on the island.  Even the state police are afraid of retaliation.  It's standard practice to cable-poach, but that tenant never offered to pay me a dime and he put the dish up without my permission."
     At our hotel, one of the waiters called Charley a "Neapolitan at heart."  We'd taken it as a compliment till we found out the Neapolitan heart is made of straw.