(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

 

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[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

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.