While the past 18 months have often felt like we’re living through an episode of The Twilight Zone—never more so that to realize that this week marks the 20th anniversary of the September 11 attacks.
It’s hard to believe that there are today people in college—and in the workforce –that weren’t even alive on that most horrific of days. In fact, it’s been labeled a defining event for Millennials—a date marker between those who were alive on that date and those (Generation Z) who weren’t. That said, the passage of time has surely dimmed the memory for many who did live through it. More’s the pity.
Early on that bright Tuesday morning in 2001, I was in the middle of a cross-country flight, literally running from one terminal to another in Dallas, when my cellphone rang. I was annoyed—the hour was early, my flight in had been late, and the bugger between that and the next uncomfortably short—particularly for a flight that was in another terminal.
It was my wife—I assumed she was simply checking to see if I had landed safely—and she was, though not for the reasons I thought. I had been on an American Airlines flight heading for L.A., after all—and at that time, not much else was known about the first plane that struck the World Trade Center on that fateful day. I thought she had to be misunderstanding what she claimed to have seen on TV.
Would that she had…
My first thought was to try and get on a flight back home—fortunately my travel agent’s first thought was to get me a hotel room. Sure enough, on that most awful of days—I wound up stranded hundreds of insurmountable miles away from family and friends. It was, without a doubt, the longest day—and loneliest night—of my life.
In fact, I was to spend the next several days at that Dallas hotel. There were no planes flying, no rental cars to be had—nowhere to go for what turned out to be three interminably long days. As that long week drew to a close, I was finally able to get a rental car and begin a long two-day journey home. It was a long, lonely drive, but one that gave me a lot of time to think, though most of that drive was a blur, just mile after endless mile of open road with nothing but AM talk radio to fill the void.
And then, somewhere in a remote section of Arkansas, I spotted something approaching in my rearview mirror. Not surprisingly, there wasn’t much traffic out—and it had been a couple of hours since I had seen anyone at all, so the movement caught my eye. Coming up fast behind me was a group of bikers—at least a couple of dozen of them, spread out across the highway—led by a particularly “scruffy” looking guy with a long beard and lots of menacing tattoos on a big bike. Out in the middle of nowhere, all alone on this deserted highway—well, I was nervous to say the least as they pulled alongside.
And then, as the lead cyclist pulled past me—I saw unfurled behind him on that big bike—an enormous American flag.
At that moment, for the first time in 72 hours, I felt a sense of peace—the comfort you feel inside when you know you are going… home.
I’ve thought back on that day—and that feeling—many times since then. Without question this year and change has been one of extraordinary pain and suffering; one full of tensions, grief and anger that seems at times destined to pull our nation apart at the seams. But two decades on, I not only can still feel that ache of being kept apart from those I love as if it were yesterday—but also the calm I felt when I saw that biker gang drive by me flying our nation’s flag.
On not a few mornings since that awful September day, I’ve thought about how many went to work, how many boarded a plane, not realizing that they would not get to come home again. How many on that day sacrificed their lives so that others could go home. How many still put their lives on the line every day, here and abroad, like those 13 souls in Afghanistan, to help keep us and our loved ones safe.
We take a lot for granted in this life, nothing more cavalierly than that there will be a tomorrow to set the record straight, to right wrongs inflicted, to tell our loved ones just how precious they are. The reality is, we don’t know—and if nothing else these past 18 months should remind us that we shouldn’t depend upon it.
So, this weekend, as we remember that most awful of days, and the loss of those no longer with us, let’s all take a moment—together—to treasure what we have—and those we have to share it with still.
Peace.
- Nevin E. Adams, JD
