September 11th

September 11th, 2001.  Eleven years ago, today.  It is hard to believe that eleven years of sunrises and sunsets, breathing and eating and drinking and sleeping, eleven years of actual every-day living has actually followed that day.  It was a day that felt like the end of the world.

I don't remember what I was doing that day.  Everybody says they remember what they were doing when the first plane hit the World Trade Center; I don't.  It was just a day for me, and for my two boys.  They were still so little.  Can that be true?  R was only 3-and-3/4 years old, and B was only 1-and-a-half.  Yes, they were little.  I was doing something.  Maybe I was making them breakfast.  Maybe I was cleaning it up.  Did we eat that day?  We must have.  I don't remember.

My phone rang.

Most people that I know found out about the disaster through television.  They were watching this, or that, and the news broke in that a plane had hit one of the towers of the World Trade Center.  They were watching the reports, looking at that awful gash in the side of the building, when another plane crossed the screen and smashed into the other tower.  They spent the day watching horrible images -- images that only became the thing of nightmares after 9/11, because they were too unbelievable to have been imagined beforehand.

I answered my phone.

It was my friend, Diane.  She was one of those people watching television, and when the first plane hit she thought of me, because she knew we didn't have television reception at our house.  She had called to let me know what was on the news.  She didn't sound terribly upset at first.  We didn't really know enough yet to be upset.  We talked about what a terrible accident it must have been, wondered how big the plane was, if there were any passengers aboard.  We assumed it was a really inexperienced pilot, or that something had malfunctioned in the plane.  How sad, we said.  We hoped there were few injuries in the building.

And then, suddenly, Diane's tone changed.  She was agitated, almost gasping for air.  "Another plane!" she said.  "I just watched another plane hit the other tower!"

My mind reeled.  "It wasn't an accident," I said.

"It wasn't an accident," she agreed.  "And it wasn't a little plane.  It was a passenger jet."

I didn't know what to say.  She didn't either.  She told me goodbye; she was going to call her husband.  I don't remember if I called mine; if I did, he wasn't at his desk.  I hung up the phone and turned on the radio.

It was a difficult day.  I had to limit myself to only a few minutes of radio at a time.  The boys are too little to deal with this, I thought.  They don't need to hear it all day, even if I do.  I remember praying a lot, praying for the victims, for their families, for the rescue workers.  I tried to smile and have a normal family day with the boys.  We watched a video, read books, played with blocks and cars together.  I heard about a plane striking the Pentagon.  I worried what would be next.  I think I was listening to the radio when the first tower fell.  I think I was listening when the second fell.  I heard there was a crash in Pennsylvania.

I was alone in a fragile bubble, waiting for the next horror to drop from the sky and smash into our little house, probably to take my precious sons and leave me entirely broken.  I read with the children and my voice seemed to echo inside my head, while other sounds seemed distant and muffled.  I kept going to the front window and looking out into the empty cul-de-sac, wondering if my neighbors were watching what was happening.

I didn't know what it all meant.  Someone had done this, planned this, carried it out.  Someone hated the America I love, so much that they hated "generic" Americans enough to blindly kill them.  They hated me.  Not me specifically, but if they were told they could push a button and kill a mother of two in Indiana, they would do it.  I'd known there were terrorists in the world, but I'd never known the terror of being one of the little metal targets in the carnival shooting booth.  The wheel turns and here comes that mother duck followed by one, two little ducklings.  Sh-ping!  Sh-ping!  If I quack, will my ducklings answer back?  I'm afraid to find out.

I remember as a child hearing that my grandfather had died.  I remember feeling guilty for getting hungry and thirsty, even for using the bathroom, when he never would again.  I told myself it was silly to feel guilty, but it is an emotion that still comes back with other losses.  I felt guilty that night for going to bed, knowing there were people buried in the rubble -- maybe some of them alive! -- and I wasn't doing anything to help them.  I felt guilty for kissing my husband when he came home that day, and the next, and the next...

I didn't feel guilty for being an American, by the way, and for loving my country.  For that, I have never felt guilty, or ashamed.

I just felt guilty for going on living my everyday life when for so many... it was over.  People who had lives as simply American as mine were dead, simply because they lived their American lives in a different place than I did.



I just took a long, deep breath.  And another.  And another.  It has been eleven years.  My boys don't remember that day at all, and in my more rational moments that makes sense...  But memory isn't totally rational, and I keep thinking that they will grow into the memory, like somehow aging now makes them older when it happened, or like the American collective will teach them to remember events they did not experience.

Several of my friends blogged about their 9/11 memories today, and I thought I'd come back here to my neglected blog and read what I've said about it before.  Imagine my surprise to discover I'd written nothing about it here.

Well, now I have.

Motorcycle Envy

I was driving home Saturday evening after a lovely visit with family in West Virginia, and following a motorcycle. The woman riding on the back of the bike was in a black tank top, and her skin was bronzed by the sun. My first thought was that if it was me, I would be sunburned beyond recognition; I have fair skin that burns very quickly. I turned to Jim and shared that thought, and he laughed, and we both returned to our own thoughts. Yeah, I told myself. Motorcycles are not for me.

The bike was ahead of me for some time. I thought about how uncomfortable it would be to ride on a seat like that for a long time. I thought about how it would be, riding on the back, and shifting my position to ease my constant back pain, thus throwing the bike off balance and causing a painful, perhaps deadly accident. Yeah, motorcycles are not for me.

I thought about the time when I was about 12 and wanted to learn to ride one. One of my cousins spent an hour trying to teach me the basics, but I was so terrified that I never managed to actually go anywhere. Yeah, motorcycles are not for me.

That thought took me ahead a decade plus, to a summer when we went to a family reunion in Wyoming. My Uncle John had brought his family's four-wheelers, and again I got the urge to try to ride despite my abject terror. I talked myself out of it a number of times, but finally, I found myself sitting on one of the four-wheelers, the engine making my legs vibrate at nearly the same frequency as my fluttering heart. I moved the machine slowly, jerkily; I couldn't relax enough to do anything else. Talking to myself to steady my nerves, I said, "We'll do one little loop, then get off calmly, say thank you, and then just breathe for a while." But just as I was coming around the front of the yard, my mother jumped on the back, shouting "Wahoo! Let's go!" Every muscle in my body froze solid, and I screamed, "NO!! Get OFF!!" There was a light pole about fifteen feet away, directly in front of me. Directly. In. Front. Of. Me. I could not turn the handlebars. I could not release the gas. I was totally helpless. SMACK. I jumped off the four- wheeler, bawling like a baby, and ran into the house. I wasn't going fast enough to do any damage, but I knew then and there, four-wheelers (and motorcycles) are seriously not for me.

More years passed. My Seester, Michelle, bought a motorcycle. It was a nice bike. But I thought she was crazy. She was talking about doing these big cross-country rides, where you have only so many days to make it a certain distance... She was so excited about her bike. Me, well, I could appreciate the beauty of the bike, but no, no, thank you. Motorcycles are really not for me.

Michelle went with me somewhere -- in a car -- one day after she'd had the bike for awhile. We were driving south on I-80, a little north of Salt Lake, as I recall. There was someone on a motorcycle in front of us. Another biker passed on the other side of the freeway, going the other way. My sister sighed. "What?" I asked.

"One of the things I love about riding my bike," she said. She pointed out that when bikers meet on the road, each driver drops his or her left hand off the handlebar, sticking it out slightly at about the hip, like a cool motorcyclist "low five" without touching. I'd never noticed it, but after that, I watched the guy on the bike ahead of us. It was true. It was like they were a secret club, and suddenly I was feeling desperately left out. Motorcycles are not... are not...

Flash forward to 2011, to my "van-without-air-conditioning," on the road to Columbus. There is that universal biker salute again, and I sigh. Mini-van drivers don't have any such thing. Remember the Suzuki Samurai commercials, where they did the "beep-beep, HI!" thing? They were trying to make themselves out to be "cool like that." We used to laugh about that, but I wonder if it worked. (I wonder if anyone out there still HAS a Suzuki Samurai?)

No, motorcycles aren't for me. Sigh.

While the Cat's Away...

Shame on me, seriously.

I know Jim won't be thrilled when he returns from China to find that I have, once again, bought a back yard wading pool. How many have there been in the 14 summers since we had our first child? And he has hated every one. For a simple, $15 purchase, I wouldn't bug Jim on his business trip, now would I? So, of course, it will be a lovely surprise for him when he gets home.

And, of course, it is the biggest wading pool I've ever bought. I think. There was that one inflatable one I bought, the one that stayed too cold for wading until it was so full of mosquito maggots I couldn't bear to let the kids into it. This one may be bigger than that one. Of course, this time, it is going to be different. It will get warm enough, quickly enough that we will have a blast with it. We will get $60 of fun out of it, and Jim will say it was a wonderful investment in childhood. Yep.

So I'm a Chicken at Heart

At one point last year, a friend on Facebook (do I have any other kind?) posted that she was looking for blogs to follow, and asked if anyone had one she hadn't found yet. I replied with something like, "Yes, I do, but you'll never find it!!" And then I sat there, with the arrow poised over the "reply" button...

...

...

... and I deleted the reply. After all, if someone KNEW I had one and wanted to find it, would it be challenging to find it? I didn't know. Did I want someone to read it? Well, yes, and yet...

Last week, after writing a new post that had been weighing on my mind for some time, I took the plunge and posted a link to this blog on my FB page. Then I worried. What if no one bothered to read it? What if someone did? What if they didn't like it? What if they made fun of me? What if??

And this time, I left it. And suddenly, my blog says that I have three followers. Wow! One seems to be following it privately, so I don't know who it is, but three (3) is three times as many as I had last year.

Now, do I dare ever write anything else?

Mom, Why Do You Hate Boosts?

My eldest son, R, asked me this week, "Mom, why do you hate boosts?" I was playing a game on Facebook, Zuma Blitz, which I let my younger son, B, play on my account frequently. When B plays, he turns on the maximum number of "boosts" -- special powers that boost his ability to win. When I play, I turn them all off. Yep, I hate boosts.

The fact is, for almost a month I have been trying to write a blog entry about this very topic. Why do I hate boosts? Well, first of all, let's call them what they are: cheats. They are little, socially accepted cheats, to help you get around the rules in order to score higher in computer games. It used to be that such things were straight-out called "cheat codes," but I guess they have softened that name to make it sound less dishonest. But you know, I miss the days when people simply played games by the rules. I think of my grandfather, during World War II on his battleship, playing checkers. He placed second in the ship-wide competition. He didn't use any boosts. There was no, "I'll spend 5,000 checkers-points for the ability to move directly ahead," or such. Can you imagine?

My boys have tried unsuccessfully to convince me to buy them some device that plugs into the Nintendo DS. They gave up asking, so I have forgotten what it is called. Apparently this device carries cheat codes for a number of DS games. They borrowed one from a friend at one time, and B delightedly told me about how his character in one game had now obtained unlimited lives, and could jump higher, and could swim. I listened to him boast, but I asked, "Where is the fun in that?" He looked at me like I was crazy, and went to tell his brother about it.

Isn't most of the fun in a game found in legitimately beating the challenge? Where is the challenge, if your character no longer is bound by the rules?

One of my former favorite Facebook games, Bejeweled Blitz, started off as a great challenge. Two of my friends were fantastic at it, and every week I fought hard to try to match their scores. I could never stay at the top of the leaderboard for long, though, as one or both would inevitably outdo my score.

Then they released a new "beta" version, in which each round allowed you to win "coins," which could be redeemed to purchase... BOOSTS. Start the round with a 2x score multiplier! Add a few seconds to the game! If you wanted, you could spend actual money and buy more coins. I played the new game for a day or two. Once, when I didn't have enough coins to purchase any boosts, I was playing the old way, with just my own skills, and I beat my high score. I was so excited, and when I posted my score, I wrote that I "hadn't even used any boosts" and suddenly I had an epiphany. My high score, for which I had "worked" so hard, looked the same as any other score from outside. I looked at my friends' high scores, and wondered how many boosts they were using, and which ones. And right then I realized that a boost was a "clean" name for a cheat.

I sent a message to the developers, complaining that boosts ruined the fun of the game. I saw on their wall several comments from other players with the same complaint. But soon the old clean version of the game disappeared, replaced by the new one. I refused to use the boosts, letting the useless "coins" accumulate. Sometimes I would see the high scores others had, and would succumb to the unspoken peer pressure for a few games, but it always made me feel sick.

Last week, I broke the 3,000,000 coin mark. I haven't played anywhere near as regularly as I once did, or I'd probably have double that. But I decided that I'd finally had enough. Just for the fun of it, I decided to spend all those useless coins and leave the game in a blaze of glory. Sure enough, I got the high score for my team last week. But it was such an empty victory. It has taken me a lot of wasted time to drop the balance below 2,000,000. And frankly, I don't care enough to keep trying.

My awareness of cheats has increased because of it. Yesterday, I caught part of a reality TV show where three teams of bakers were trying to make the best decorated cake. As the teams worked, they pulled the team leaders aside for two events. The first event -- which I missed, actually -- seemed to involve making a cake that looked like a poster. The second was a taste test, from their special cake. Now, if the competition is about making a fantastic cake, I could see the point of the second "minor" event; a gorgeous cake that tastes awful isn't worth the sugar rush. The first event, however, seemed kind of forced. ANYWAY, the point was that the winners of these two events got to pick a team to penalize in the main competition -- by taking away 30 minutes of work time from that team. The same team won both events, and the leader chose to penalize the same team both times. Now I don't know how much time they had in all, but to lose a full hour of competition time? How can that count as anything other than a cheat? Now by this time, I was pretty "into" the program, rooting with all my heart for the team that had been so unfairly hindered -- and that team won, by the way. But I am so disgusted by the way the competition was dirtied that I will not watch it again.

If you want the "minor" events included, that is just fine with me. The taste test, in particular, should be part of the final score of the cake, absolutely! But to give any team an unfair advantage, or disadvantage, based on the whims of a winner... No. How does that get everyone to do their best? How does it encourage good sportsmanship?

Suppose that my team had lost the competition, perhaps by a narrow margin. (I believe they may have won by a narrow margin; it is hard to say.) What would they walk away saying? "If they hadn't stolen an hour's labor from us, we would have had them." "We were robbed!" (Yes, they were.) There might have been cordial congratulations, but "unfair" would have been seething under their smiles.

A friend of mine asked on Facebook about another reality show tonight; "Who was eliminated?" Another friend responded that the person eliminated was "saved" by the judges, so would be going on in the competition after all. The judges on this show didn't used to have the power to "save" a favorite, to essentially say, "The rules won't apply this time." They do now.

Why do we settle for this in our society today? Have we become so competitive -- no, that isn't fair to the term "competition." Have we become so determined to win at all costs that we've given up on honesty and fairness? Why is it so acceptable to bend the rules here, and break them there? Why do we put up with it in our computer and video games and on reality shows, and then act so shocked when people expect to get away with cheating in other areas?

I believe in being honest. THAT is why I hate boosts.

She Could Have Been Me; the Driver

A couple of weeks ago, I was returning home from a late trip to the grocery store, and I hit a cat.

One moment I was passing under the green light, listening to K's tantrum in her car seat. There was a sudden flash of tan reflecting in my right headlight, and two thumps. I didn't know what I hit. I pulled over to the side of the road, and the cars that were behind me passed. Sillouetted against the headlights was a small lump in the road.

Poor thing, I thought. I didn't know what to do. One doesn't call 9-1-1 over an animal, I knew. I couldn't just leave K alone, but I couldn't just leave this animal either. I picked up my cell phone and tried to call my husband. Maybe he would know what I should do. He didn't answer. Mom once had a cat; I tried her number. No answer.

And then, the poor thing raised its head.

Another driver pulled over, and went to the cat. I jumped out of the van, hurrying over. "I hit it," I cried. "What is it?"

He came toward me. "It's a cat," he said. "I laid it over there on the ground." (Yes, getting it out of the road made sense.) This man, Tom, and I spent a couple of hours trying to take care of this poor cat. Eventually, he took it with him, to take to the Humane Society the next day (because I am allergic to cats, and he has one,) and then remembered that OSU has a veterinary school. He called the next morning and told me that he took the cat there, and they said they would take care of it.

But you see, this isn't about the cat. It started with the cat, but it isn't about that.

I am still a bit of a wreck about the cat. I cried when one of the neighborhood cats ran from my porch one morning. It wasn't even similar; this cat had no tail, and totally different coloring. But I hit a cat, and will never know whether it survived the night.

It happened so fast, and I couldn't help but think of the way my daughter tried to run away from me in the parking lot that evening, not wanting to go home. I thought of my sister's little boy, three months older than K, who darted out of the house so fast that his father had to run full speed after him to keep him out of the street. What if, instead of a cat, I'd hit a toddler with an escape fetish? How would I live with myself?

The next day, I drove past the school where a crossing guard gave her life to save a child last year. I sobbed at the memory of that story. I know the child was badly injured but survived thanks to her sacrifice. I wonder how he is doing now?

How did the driver go on, with the guilt of knowing he had taken an innocent life? How would I?

A few more days flashed by. I was hurrying home to meet the first bus, which brings my 12-year-old R home from school. The road I drove is one I use frequently. There is an overpass over railroad tracks, then the road goes under the freeway, with a fairly sharp left turn just past the bridge. The road is marked 50 MPH. On the stretch on the other side of the turn, I rarely drive 50. There are several businesses, a smattering of homes, and railroad tracks, all of which seem to require more attention than I can give at that speed.

This particular day, as I round the bend, I am surprised to find a school bus there, lights flashing. I've noticed the homes in this area, but never thought about them holding school age children. I shudder, thinking how glad I am that our family doesn't live on such a busy, fast road. I wish this bit of road was marked a little slower, to help protect those families.

I drove this stretch of road twice, that other night, with the cat. The cat that could have been a child.

More days flash by. K has a morning appointment, and I am rushing to get her there. I turn onto the stretch of road, and go over the tracks, only to see emergency lights up ahead. A little closer, and I see that the road is blocked. I use a driveway to turn around, wondering what happened. The mental image of the school bus flashes in my mind. NO, I tell it. I won't accept that concept.

I don't know whether more days flash by, but it seems like the next morning, ten-year-old C is hit by a car, and killed, on that stretch of road. He was waiting for the bus, crossed the road to chase geese, we are told, and then turned around to cross back to home. The woman who drove the SUV wasn't charged legally. She wasn't breaking the law; she simply didn't have the chance to stop.

She could have been me.

She Could Have Been Me; the Mother

This afternoon, my ten-year-old son and I went to a mortuary together. One of his classmates was hit by a car last week and died, and we went to show support for his family, and for B to say goodbye.

The loss of this young child has been deeply painful to me. I don't believe I ever met him, but I've taken his death in a deeply personal way. I don't begin to suppose that my assumed pain has come anywhere near the real agony suffered by his family. This is one time, however, that I wish my vivid imagination would focus on a fantasy with less realism.

From the moment B came home with the note from his principal, the day of the accident, I have had sobbing bouts of there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I. C was ten, like my son; waiting for the bus, like my son does. They sat at the same table in their fifth grade class. The family recently moved here; admittedly, it has been three and a half years for us, but we, too, are transplants. Their home is not far from mine; I pass it several times each week.

C had a mother, someone who adored him, and dreamed for him. Someone like me.

One afternoon I hurried home to meet the buses of my children. The stretch of road I drove has an overpass over railroad tracks, then goes under a freeway overpass, and takes a fairly sharp turn just on the other side. The speed limit is 50. I've always had a hard time maintaining that speed after the turn, as the businesses, smattering of houses, and train tracks on the other side seem to beg for a little more attention. This day, I came around the corner to find a school bus stopped, lights flashing. I was surprised. I knew there were homes here, but it never occurred to me that there were school age children living in those homes. I shuddered, thinking how glad I was that I didn't have children catching a bus here.

I was hurrying somewhere the following morning, and found the road blocked with emergency vehicles. As I used a driveway to turn around, I thought again about the school bus. No, the thought was too horrible to complete. I had the radio on, and nothing had been said on the news about an accident, so this must be something else. Maybe someone just took the curve too fast. (I never found out what happened.)

Then last Tuesday afternoon. My precious B came home from school, gave me the letter from his principal, and went quietly to do his homework. I felt the air sucked out of the room. Blinking back tears, I asked him if he knew C. "He was in my class," he said. "He sat at my table." I asked him if he was okay. He shrugged, his mouth twitched. He "mmMMmm"ed the way he always does, instead of articulating "I don't know." He went back to his homework.

I thought of B running to his bus stop every morning. He crosses our street, then turns and crosses another. He makes a token look for traffic, but certainly not the careful "look both ways" I tried to instill in him as a toddler. He runs, though it is only seven minutes before his scheduled bus time. Our road is one of the main thoroughfares in the neighborhood, and people rushing to work often drive a little faster than the posted 25 MPH as they pass my house. In my mind I see him darting out in front of someone fiddling with their radio, or positioning their coffee cup, or... or...

It could have been me, the mother dabbing tears from her eyes with the ear of a teddy bear, her left hand resting on the still head of her son's body. "I'm sorry, " she whispered to him, " I know you never like to see me cry." It could have been B lying there, his body doll-like, bruises showing behind thick mortician's makeup. His mother showed us his school picture, "What he really looked like," she said, smiling through her agony. Tears flooded from my eyes; I could not hold them back. She could have been me.

I was the lucky one, watching as my son used his best handwriting to sign the guest book, and then ducked out into the sunshined immortality of his youth again. I got to hold his hand as we crossed the street together, and help him excitedly gather a pinecone and berries for his seed collection for school. Eventually the pain of this moment will fade for me, and I will go back to nagging and scolding my 10 year old. Will she imagine, then, what it is like to be me?