(Let’s) Never Forget

  It’s hard to believe that today there are people in the workforce who weren’t even alive on Sept. 11, 2001.

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 even for many who did live through it. More’s the pity.

Odds are if you were “here” on that most awful of days, you’ll remember exactly where you were. I was travelling from one coast to the other – heading to speak at a conference early on that bright Tuesday morning in 2001. In fact, I was in the middle of that cross-country flight, literally running from one terminal to another in Dallas, Texas when my cellphone rang. I was annoyed – the hour was early, my flight in had been late, and the timing between that and my connection was uncomfortably short – particularly for a flight that was in another terminal. 

The call was from 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. See, I had been on an American Airlines flight heading for Los Angeles, after all – and at that time, not much else was known about the first plane that struck the World Trade Center beyond it being an American Airlines flight headed to LA. I was breathless – could hardly make out what she was saying from the noise in the terminal. I was sure I was misunderstanding what she claimed to have seen on TV.

Would that I had…

And then as I slowed, for the first time it sank in – and I saw what my subconscious mind had seen, but not registered – the crowds surrounding the TV monitors throughout the terminal.

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. They’d be in short supply shortly – and, sure enough, on that most awful of days – I wound up stranded in a hotel room 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. There hadn’t been much traffic on the road – in fact, it had been a couple of hours since I had seen anyone at all, so the movement caught my eye. As they came into focus, I saw it 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. Even today, I can still feel that ache of being kept apart from those I love as if it were yesterday – but I also draw comfort from that memory of that biker gang driving 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, not just that day – but ever 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.

We take a lot for granted in this life, nothing more cavalierly than there will be a tomorrow to set the record straight, to right wrongs inflicted, to tell our loved ones just how precious they are.

This week as we remember that most awful of days, and the loss of those no longer with us, let’s never forget – and take a moment – together – to treasure what we have – and those we have to share it with still.

Peace.

- Nevin E. Adams, JD

A Day to Remember

It’s hard for me to believe that next week we’ll mark the 22^nd anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. 

Harder still to comprehend that there are individuals now in the workplace who weren’t even alive on that day, and others so young that they have no memory of it. Other significant dates on the calendar have names affixed to them, two decades later—and likely forever—this one remains simply “nine-eleven.” 

While the events of that day remain seared in my memory, human beings are, for the most part it seems, wired to forget, to “move on,” from our worst memories. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing, though this is one day I never will.   

In fairness, that wasn’t a “normal” day for me. I was flying—cross-country—on an American Airlines flight to speak at a conference in California. I learned about the attacks while I was running from one terminal to another in Dallas, Texas. Oh, I had out of the corner of my eye wondered why everyone was gathered around those airport TV monitors so early on a Tuesday morning—but it wasn’t until my wife called on my cell (while I was running) to make sure I wasn’t on one of those planes…that I learned the awful truth.

I wasn’t on those planes of course, though I might well have been.[i] There were, after all, a couple of hundred individuals that boarded early flights just like mine that had no comprehension as to how that day would end, not to mention those already at work in the World Trade Center and Pentagon. And of course, there were the 343 members of the New York City Fire Department and 71 law enforcement officers whose work took them to the World Trade Center that fateful day. A day they went to work—but never came home. 

On not a few mornings since that awful day—and pretty much every time I’ve boarded an airplane since—I’ve thought about how on that horrible day so many went off to a normal day of work, how many boarded a plane—as will many on this anniversary—not realizing that they would not get to come home again. How many sacrificed their lives that day so that others COULD go home. How many put their lives on the line every day still, here and abroad, to help keep us and our loved ones safe. Let’s face it—planning for a long retirement is a laudable goal—but sometimes those plans are… “interrupted.”  And more often than not by things as “normal” as a traffic accident, a drunk driver or an unanticipated heart attack.       

We take a lot for granted in this life, perhaps 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.

As we remember that most awful of days—let’s also remember to take a moment to treasure what we have—and those we have to share it with still.

- Nevin E. Adams, JD

 

---

[i] I’d spend the next three days living out of a hotel room in Dallas, with flights all cancelled for the foreseeable future, and me unable even to find a car to rent—literally separated from home and family by hundreds of insurmountable miles for three interminably long days. As that long week drew to a close, I finally was able to acquire a rental car and begin a long two-day journey home. During that long, lonely drive, I had lots of time to think, to pray, and yes, to cry. Most of that drive is a blur to me now, just mile after endless mile of open road. I’ve shared before the story of that drive home—where, somewhere in the middle of Arkansas, a large group of bikers was coming up around me—the kind you generally aren’t happy to see coming up behind you on a lonely, deserted highway. But unfurled behind the leader of that group on his Harley was an enormous American flag. And 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.

Never Forget

 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 20^th 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

(Let's) Never Forget

Early on a 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.

It was my wife. 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 Sept. 11. I thought she had to be misunderstanding what she had seen on TV. Would that she had…

That day, when family and friends were so dear and precious to us all, I spent in a hotel room in Dallas. It was perhaps 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—and so I was stranded—separated from home and family by hundreds of insurmountable miles for three interminably long days. As that week drew to a close, I was finally able to get a rental car and begin a long two-day journey home. While it was a long, lonely drive, it gave me a lot of time to think, though most of that drive was a blur, just mile after endless mile of open road.

There was, however, one incident I will never forget. I was driving in a remote section of Arkansas when on that long, lonesome highway I spotted something approaching in my rearview mirror. Turns out, it was a group of Hell’s Angels bikers, what had to be a couple of dozen riders—led by a particularly “scruffy” looking guy with a long beard and lots of menacing tattoos on a big bike. We couldn’t have been more different. But as he passed, 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.

Without question this year 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 nearly two decades later, I still feel that ache of being kept apart from those I love as if it were yesterday—but also still remember 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, 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.  

This Friday, 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

It's About Time

Most of the surveys and research in our industry focus on the shortcomings – a lack of savings, of diversity in investment, of failure to maximize the employer match, or to have access to the programs that support those opportunities. There is, however, a shortfall that doesn’t garner much attention.

I’m talking about time.

And while time is often treated as an “enemy” of retirement planning (sometimes under the “longevity” label), certainly when there is a concern about outliving one’s resources, or perhaps when too little time remains to make preparations, there is another aspect: a retirement cut short.   

This is heavy on my mind of late – not just because this week marks the anniversary of the Sept. 11 attacks, though that’s certainly a factor.

My recollections of that awful day notwithstanding, I’ve been particularly mindful of the untimely passing of three individuals of my acquaintance in recent weeks: a relative, a colleague, and an associate here. Two were not even thinking about retirement when their time came – one had been eagerly looking forward with anticipation to a retirement she’ll never have.

Now I’m not privy to the particulars of the financial plans of these individuals – the needs that their unexpected passing may present for others – or what steps, if any, they may have taken to ease the financial circumstances for those they left behind. I hope they had that opportunity, but know all too well that many don’t.

People die tragically and prematurely every day, of course. Most of them are unknown to us, and nearly all are unnamed to us. And as the recent mass shootings remind us, on any given day, any one of us could go to work, or to the store – and simply not come home.

Ironic as it sounds, death is a part of life. Thoughtful individuals prepare for the possibility of death –through faith, sacrifice and, with luck, sound financial planning. However, most don’t dwell on those realities, and that’s doubtless a good thing.

In this business, we spend a lot of time worrying about the risks of outliving our retirement savings. In fact, surveyed workers increasingly seem to rely on an assumption that they will work longer, or save more later, to make up for their current shortfalls.

However, and perhaps particularly on this anniversary eve of the Sept. 11 attacks, it’s worth remembering that we don’t always have as much time as we might think – or want.

It’s time we did.

- Nevin E. Adams, JD

Never Forget

Early on a bright Tuesday morning in September, I was in the middle of a cross-country flight, literally running from one terminal to another in Dallas, when, much to my dismay, my cell phone rang.

It was my wife. It was September 11, 2001.  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. I thought she had to be misunderstanding what she had seen on TV. Would that she had…

It’s been 17 years since then – and yet every year on September 11, I can’t help but recall the events of that day.  How on that day in particular, when family and friends were so particularly dear and precious, I spent stranded in a hotel room in Dallas. It was perhaps the longest day — and loneliest night — of my life.

In fact, I was to spend the next several days in Dallas — there were no planes flying, no rental cars to be had — I was literally separated from home and family by hundreds of insurmountable miles for three interminably long days. As that long week drew to a close, I finally was able to acquire a rental car and begin a long two-day journey home. During that long, lonely drive, I had lots of time to think, to pray, and yes, to cry.  Most of that drive is a blur to me now, just mile after endless mile of open road.

There was, however, one incident I will never forget. Somewhere in the middle of Arkansas, a large group of bikers was coming up around me. A particularly scruffy looking guy with a long beard led the pack on a big bike — rough looking – the kind you generally aren’t happy to see coming up behind you on a lonely deserted highway. But unfurled behind him on his Harley was an enormous American flag. And 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.

Seventeen years later, I can still feel that ache of being separated from those I love — and yet, even amidst the acrimony of our current political climate, I’m still able to recall the warmth I felt when I saw that biker gang pass by me flying our nation’s flag.

On not a few mornings since that awful day, I’ve thought about how many went to work, how many boarded a plane – as many will today - not realizing that they would not get to come home again. How many sacrificed their lives so that others could go home. How many put their lives on the line every day still, here and abroad, to help keep us and our loved ones safe.

We take a lot for granted in this life, perhaps nothing more cavalierly than that there will be a tomorrow to set the record straight, to right inflicted wrongs, to tell our loved ones just how precious they are. On this day – as we remember that most awful of days - let’s all take a moment to treasure what we have — and those we have to share it with still.

Peace.

Never Forget

Early on a 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 cell phone rang.


It was my wife. 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. I thought she had to be misunderstanding what she had seen on TV. Would that she had…

That day, when family and friends were so dear and precious to us all, I spent in a hotel room in Dallas. It was perhaps the longest day — and loneliest night — of my life. In fact, I was to spend the next several days in Dallas — there were no planes flying, no rental cars to be had — separated from home and family by hundreds of insurmountable miles for three interminably long days. As that week drew to a close, I finally was able to get a rental car and begin a long two-day journey home. While it was a long, lonely drive, it gave me a lot of time to think, though most of that drive was a blur, just mile after endless mile of open road.

There was, however, one incident I will never forget. Somewhere in the middle of Arkansas, a group of Hell’s Angels bikers was coming up around me. A particularly scruffy looking guy with a long beard led the pack on a big bike — rough looking. But unfurled behind him on the bike was 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.

Fifteen years later, I can still feel that ache of being separated from those I love — and yet still remember the warmth I felt when I saw that biker gang drive by me flying our nation’s flag. On not a few mornings since that awful 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 sacrificed their lives so that others could go home. How many still put their lives on the line every day, here and abroad, 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. As we remember that most awful of days, and the loss of those no longer with us, let’s all take a moment to treasure what we have — and those we have to share it with still.

Peace.

- Nevin E. Adams, JD

Never Forget

Early on a bright Tuesday morning in 2001, I was in the middle of a cross-country flight, literally running from one terminal to another in Dallas, Texas, when my cell phone rang.

It was my wife. 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. I thought she had to be misunderstanding what she had seen on TV. Would that she had….

That day, when family and friends were so dear and precious to us all, I spent in a hotel room in Dallas. It was perhaps the longest day - loneliest night - of my life. In fact, I was to spend the next several days in Dallas – there were no planes flying, no rental cars to be had – separated from home and family by hundreds of insurmountable miles for three interminably long days. As that week drew to a close, I finally was able to get a rental car and begin a long two day journey home.  While it was a long, lonely drive, it gave me a lot of time to think, though most of that drive was a blur, just mile after endless mile of open road.

There was, however, one incident I will never forget. Somewhere in the middle of Arkansas, a group of Hell's Angels bikers was coming up around me. A particularly scruffy looking guy with a long beard led the pack on a big bike - rough looking. But unfurled out behind him on the bike was 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.

All these years hence, I can still feel that ache of being separated from those I love – and yet still remember the warmth I felt when I saw that biker gang drive by me flying our nation’s flag. On not a few mornings since that awful day, I think how many went to work, how many boarded a plane, not realizing that they would not get to come home again. How many sacrificed their lives so that others could go home. How many still put their lives on the line every day – here and abroad - 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. As we remember that most awful of days, and the loss of those no longer with us, let’s all take a moment to treasure what we have – and those we have to share it with still.

Peace.

-          Nevin E. Adams, JD

Just Another Day?

This week, I’m going to do something I never thought I would do again.

I’m going to fly on September 11.

OK, so, in the overall scheme of things, it’s perhaps not that big a deal. I know that it’s been six years, that part of our not letting the terrorists win is to go on about our normal lives. I don’t even know anyone personally who died in the attacks, though I know people who do. At the time of the attacks, I wasn’t living in the parts of our nation targeted (although we relocated to the Northeast soon afterward). It’s not like I plan to spend some significant part of the day in prayer or contemplation—and it’s certainly not that I believe for one second that there will be a recurrence of those horrific events just because it’s the sixth anniversary.

I was, however, traveling by air on that fateful day, only to be grounded hundreds of miles away from friends and family (see Never Forget). I know that others were stranded farther away from their loved ones—and perhaps for longer. But it was a time when I wanted—more than I could possibly have imagined at the time—to be with my family. It was a time when people who love each other should have been able to comfort and reassure each other.

Somehow, the notion of once again being hundreds of miles away from my family on that day just seems wrong. Not as wrong as missing a birthday or graduation (I’m still batting 1.000 there)—but wrong, nonetheless. Whatever else we try to make of it, for this generation anyway, September 11 will always be “different.”

Like you, I’ll always have my memories of that day. I’ll never approach getting on an airplane the same way again, for one thing. I doubt that I’ll ever feel as “safe” as I once did, but I also appreciate in a very special way, every day, the love of my family, the support of friends, the joy of being alive—and the responsibility to remember always that there are those whose reunion with their loved ones still lies ahead.

I may be traveling this September 11. But it is not—and should never become—“just another day.”

Peace.