Where Were You That Morning?

The 11th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks brings back the memories and emotions of that day for many people. There are efforts worldwide to record the stories of people of all types. This is a small part of it. Thanks to Patch's Tom Sofield for the idea.

I'll  get it started. For me, this is therapy of sorts. I'm a native New Yorker, born in da Bronx, raised on Long Island. The day touched me personally on many levels.

Of course I'll never forget the weather that day. Perfectly clear morning. Sunny, not humid, a perfect September day. My wife and daughter Megan, then 3 months old, were in Connecticut at my sister-in-law's for the week. The day got off to a quiet, but lonely, start.

The first I heard of what was unfolding was when I arrived at work. I was in early due to a scheduled trip that day to Jim Thorpe. My assistant Pete got a phone call from his mother telling him that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. We were outside, at the Barn on Neshaminy Manor, when the call came. I replied that it must have been a small plane, and we went into our office to see if we could get any more information from the Internet.

By the time we got into the office, just a few minutes, the second call from Pete's mother came. A second plane had hit the other tower. It was a big plane. We tried to get to various news websites, only to find most of them overloaded. We knew now that it was bad. Really bad.

The first thing that went through my mind was my family. I knew my wife Karen and my daughter were safe, but my brother Jim was living in Brooklyn and working in the Greenwich Village section of Manhattan, and my parents were living on Long Island, my mom battling cancer at the time. I called my parents; they were OK, but upset. My brother had already left for work and was not reachable. We were worried.

It was a long day of worry and paranoia for many. I also knew that hundreds of firefighters from the Fire Department of New York, or FDNY, were there or en route, more than a few who I knew or knew of. Firefighters are a tight-knit fraternity, we care about each other, even if we don't know each other.

We still had a job to do that day, so Pete and I set out for Jim Thorpe. We had the radio on KYW, and listened to the events unfold. We were in Dublin when the reports of the Pentagon attack came in. We were scanning the skies as we headed north, knowing full well that people were dead and dying, that this was a day as opposite as the weather was beautiful. We were just north of Allentown when the news came that the first tower collapsed. Unthinkable.

The Twin Towers were a beacon of home for me for more than 20 years at that point. Whenever travelling home, seeing the towers on the horizon meant I was home. I watched them rise as a child. I loved to get stuck in traffic on the stretch of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway across the harbor; I would have a camera ready to take pics of the skyline that meant the world to me.

Word of the second tower falling came as we reached our destination. The reports of the crash in Shanksville were starting to come in as well. We were scanning the skies looking for jets that were rumored to still be flying and unaccounted for. There was too much to process. I couldn't think straight. My brother had been located, as he had gone to work that morning, only to see the second tower fall as he exited the subway. The office in Jim Thorpe had a small TV, and only antenna reception. We watched what we could and got our work done. 

The ride home was quiet. I knew at that point that thousands had perished, murdered by terrorists. Still, there were many questions. Traffic was light, as many had gone home early for the day. Same was true back at the office - it was empty.

With the family away, I went to the firehouse. Station 79 is on Warden Road, and there were cars in the parking lot, an indication that there were other firefighters with the same idea.

All day, there were stories of volunteer companies heading to Manhattan to assist with the rescue effort. Those stories turned into rumors of companies in Bucks County doing the same, and firefighters looking to help others at a time of great need. That and the reverence for the FDNY that many firefighters have. They are the gold standard of firefighting. Many of their ranks have taught in the area. Some names are legendary in the firefighting world - Ray Downey, Patty Brown. Gone.

We sat at the firehouse until around 11 p.m., watching the coverage of the continuing rescue operation, hearing the number 343, the number of murdered FDNY members. Now, we knew the name Osama Bin-Laden and an organization called Al Queda were suspected. There was a lot of anger and frustration that night. Anger at what had happened, and frustration in not being able to help. Bucks County Fire radio was broadcasting regular reminders that no company was to respond north without specific orders, which never came.

It was a hollow, sad week. I was alone, missing my family, dealing with the emotions. Learning the names of the dead and missing, reading news accounts, there was a pall. But the sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky, for the rest of the week. On Thursday morning, I was woken by the sound of a jet. 

There hadn't been any jet flights since Tuesday, so the sound of a jet taking off was a shock. My mind went to the worst place in a second. What was that? Turned on the television. No news of another attack. Found out later that it was a fighter jet that had refueled at the Willow Grove NAS. Part of the post-9/11 reality - combat air patrols over New York and Washington.

I drove to Connecticut straight from work on Friday afternoon to pick up Karen and Megan. Friday night was the nationwide candlelight vigil, and there were flags hung over roadway bridges for the entire length of the ride.

People were gathering on the bridges, some with candles, some with flags, all with a renewed American spirit, remembering the lost and support for those left behind. I tried to avoid looking south down the Hudson River as I crossed it on the Tappan Zee Bridge, but couldn't. I could see the smoke from the fires still burning. It was a long ride, lots of traffic, but worth it all when I got to see my wife and daughter.

We spent the weekend between Connecticut and Long Island, including a somber ferry ride across Long Island Sound, where security at the Bridgeport and Port Jefferson ports was at an unprecedented level. Everything was searched. No one was immune.

Along the way I had learned that a high school classmate, Bob Sutcliffe, was at a meeting in Windows on the World in Tower One that morning. I had last seen Bob at our 20th reunion a few years before. Met his lovely wife Margaret. Had a beer with him and remembered when we went to junior high together. We played baseball together. Gone.

A man that played high school basketball for my father. Gone. The parents of hundreds of children. Gone. The stories of the lost. So much loss.

On the way home that Sunday night, we could see and smell the smoke of the fires still burning at Ground Zero as we passed through Coney Island. As we travelled the Belt Parkway, sitting in the mouth of the harbor, was a U.S. Navy guided missile cruiser. Heavily armed police officers and National Guardsmen guarded the entrance and tolls of the bridges in New York and New Jersey.

It was a surreal end to a week that had no equal.