September 11, 2001, started earlier than usual for me. Logan had awakened shortly after 7 a.m. I had little desire to be awake at that time, so I bundled him in a blanket and planted him in front of CBC Kids. I thought an hour or so of their morning programming would keep him occupied as he was still kind of sleepy. Mikaela (just over a year old) slept in the living room in her playpen and she woke up a few minutes later.
As I snoozed fitfully in the bedroom, something slowly started to seep through the fog. The deep voice of a middle-aged man was droning on the T.V. It wasn't Dragon Tales or Sesame Street.
I wasn't concerned. I thought the kids must have inadvertantly changed the channel to CNN or something. I stumbled into the livingroom... into what I can only describe as full-blown chaos.
A building was falling on the T.V. and a sombre Peter Mansbridge was explaining this was only one traumatic event in a morning of traumatic events.
I couldn't figure it out. Was it movie footage? A disaster movie in NYC? But those ridiculous ideas were quickly disgarded. Whatever had happened it was huge. And it was bad. Very bad.
I screamed for Richard, who was home sick from work (another tale for another time), who managed to drag himself to the livingroom long enough for us to gather that some sort of terrorist attack had taken place in New York.
I still couldn't fathom what would make the BOTH World Trade Centre Towers fall, but something else was niggling at the back of my head... both of my kids had been watching the news coverage alone for who knows how long.
(A week later a picture of the Twin Towers in church caused Logan to lean over with a look of concern and ask, "Are the buildings going to fall down again, Mommy?")
I quickly popped Blue's Clues into the VCR and Richard hobbled back to bed.
I logged onto my computer and phoned my mom. All she said was, "I know." Just the day before she and I had discussed when she was getting their satellite channels turned back on. Needless to say she had already phoned the satellite TV company. Stuff was happening in the world and she couldn't see it!
CNN.com and every other news site in the Western World was down or severely disfunctional for most of the day. I eventually started getting my news updates from the BBC News website.
When I logged onto a writing group's bulletin board the first message I saw said: Holy Freaking Crap!!!! That pretty much summed it up.
I remember going into the bedroom and telling Richard that they still thought there was a hijacked plane in the air, but they didn't know where it was or where it was headed. I remember being struck by how odd that statement was. Who could have dreamed of ever uttering such words? I added, "The worst part is that's not the worst thing that's happened today."
Images of the thousands of posters of the missing are still etched in my mind. And you know for every one poster that was hung, there was one mother, father, brother, sister, or child waiting anxiously (and often in vain) for the return of their beloved.
The massive crowd of people walking out of Manhattan in absolute silence isn't something I'll ever forget.Or the image of thousands of office workers covered in building dust with trails of tears through the coating on their faces.
There was the picture of a fire station in Belgium that shined their trucks until they glowed for the memorial service a week later. They spiffed up their uniforms and then drove their trucks just outside the station and stood in front of them at attention. It was their show of solidarity for their fellow firemen who gave their lives in the attacks.
That image stills brings a lump to my throat. They didn't know these people they were honouring. They might not have spoken the same language. I'm betting not many had even stepped foot on American soil. But they didn't care. They still wanted to honour the sacrifice these brave men made in an effort to rescue people like you and me.
It was a sign of solidarity, that connection of being bonded with your fellow earth travellers, that made me smile - even through the tears.
Another image I'm sure everyone remembers... the quiet skies. For days there were no vapor trails in our prairie sky. There were no planes rumbling over the city on take off or coming in for a landing. I never noticed how often they do that, but I do remember noting how odd it sounded when they weren't doing it anymore. To this day, I don't look at passenger jets the same way as it slices a graceful arc over the city.
I wonder if the people of NYC still cringe when they hear one.
I also remember the shame. International shame. I watched with horror as my fellow Canadians dared to utter the most absurd and insulting words: they had it coming. How could my copatriots be so unfeeling, so insensitive? And when Jean Chretien refused to allow a Christian minister to pray at the Parliament Hill memorial service for the WTC, I remember thinking Canada was walking around with toilet paper stuck to its shoe on the international stage. We just didn't know it.
Maybe we still don't know it. In my mind, my national pride slipped a bit after the 9/11 tragedy. Perhaps mostly because Canada never had to examine itself as a nation. Instead, we pompously took ourselves out of the equation. We never asked ourselves those hard questions. It was too easy to point fingers and place blame. It was happening to the other guy. So instead of doing some healthy self-examination, we got to wash our hands of the incident - perfectly smug in our belief that it couldn't happen to us.
I don't believe that. Canada has too much in common with our neighbour to the south for the terrorists to tell the difference. Well, except when it comes to getting a passport (something of a joke internationally).
Anyway, those are my thoughts from that day. The taste of shock in my mouth is still there. The numb confusion as I try to make sense of the incomprehensible. It's all still there. Just a little quieter. A little less vivid.
So probably Monday night, I will sit and raise a glass in memory of those who lost their lives five years ago tomorrow. Those who started their work day on a typical Tuesday morning, but never got to finish it.
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