KEEP THE MEMORy OF SEPTEMBER 11th FRESH

Written 2003

Another weekend. A day where the sun is shining, the morning is bright.
It is, of course, a different Saturday than most of the year.
It is the day when we remember those who have given their lives so that we might live free.

Amidst my daily routine of this Saturday, I am reminded of the goodness of my life, the simple things that gives it meaning. I pause as I load the car to bring the empty pop and beer bottles to the local IGA, in support of the Boy Scout bottle and Can Drive. I am reminded how lucky I am to be living in a small country town, so far removed from the events of that terrible day.

I can not watch the ceremonies on tv or listen to the programs on the radio, paying tribute to those who fell that day. It is all I can do to hold it together, far too fresh a pain for me that I am still without my own patriot. Although relatively safe and secure upon his ship the U.S.S. Nimitz, my son, my Navy Boy, is stationed on the air craft carrier that spent the better part of two years in middle eastern waters. He is back in San Diego, one year left of his tour of duty. Ready to return to battle if called, I am prouder still of him as he grows and matures each day, mindful of his awesome commitment to this country. I look forward to each call, the reassurance in his voice of I'm okay, Mom. He is a man.

Nor can I read one story or tribute to the firefighters of that day. It takes but one look into the eyes of my own beloved firefighter to realize how blessed we are to live here in paradise. I am not naive, however, to assume the evil can never touch us. I am now and will be forever grateful to his brothers in arms, who gave their lives willingly that day, simply because it was what they were called to do. My mind will forever hold the picture of those who were running into the burning buildings as everyone else was running out, running past those on the streets of New York and Washington who were running for their lives. For they surely were running into the arms of their Lord that dark and desolate morning. There are no words to convey the amount of courage in their hearts the moment they realized they would not be coming back.

Courageous too, the men who took it upon themselves to storm the cockpit of the airplane turned bomb. There is no doubt in my mind the fear they must have felt as they called on their cell phones to say goodbye to their own beloved members on the ground. But they charged on, nonetheless, knowing it would be their final act of service to mankind.
I will be forever grateful to all the patriots of this day and I will never forget what they have done.

God Bless us everyone, and God Bless America.

As I look into the face of the young man, the Boy Scout who has but an inkling of the extent of evil in this world, I am grateful he is still experiencing the innocence of his youth. It is his trust in the goodness of mankind that we must cling to, while being mindful of what could happen at any moment. Not to live our lives in fear, but to be ever mindful the extent of evil that exists.

Never forget. Rejoice in all we have, never taking any of it for granted.

Never forget.


Written 2007
I wasn't going to write anything about today, didn't even want to acknowledge it's horrid anniversary.

But it seems I have no choice.

I've purposely not turned on the television, not listened to the radio. I didn't read any of the newspapers, didn't talk to my friends about it.

September 11, 2001.

I was walking into the rectory, not knowing the first plane had already hit the World Trade Center Building. The place where my girlfriends and I used to go when we went to NYC for our junkets.

David, our maintenance manager, and Fr. Bob, the Pastor of the Churches, met me at the door.

"Eileen! Quick, sit down and watch this with us" they said as they flicked on the television in the rectory living room. The sun was streaming through the windows, a beautiful morning.

We sat together and watched the second plane hit the other building.

"I have to go home" I said, looking at them in shock.

There was nobody there, but I had to go home.

"I have to go home." Nodding in agreement, they had already realized what had yet to hit me.

My youngest daughter was in school, St. Bonaventure University. My sons were at work. The other daughters were entrenched in their own lives, blissful and happy.

And my other son was in the Navy.

I knew at that moment he would become a man.

Because he would be going to war.

This is not only the anniversary of a nation that finally lost all of its innocence.

It's the anniversary of the day I gave my son to Uncle Sam.


Written 2009
Thankfully, he came home to us three years later.

I am painfully aware not everyone’s son or daughter made the trip home alive.

Keep the memory of this day fresh in your mind, to recall the evil and not let its face fade away. Pain is always pushed to the back of our mind; keep the evil at reach, to be able to fight it when it trys to rear its venomous fangs again, trying to suck the life out of our country, alittle jab at a time.

May God comfort those today who live the horror of this day, every day.

But also give then solace knowing Judgement Day will take care of everything.