On September 11, 2001, we were gathered around the kitchen table with our books open, starting the new school year. The day before, we had crossed the border at Port Huron, Michigan and into Sarnia, Ontario, after having been on a three-day car ride home from my parents' home in Saskatchewan. A telephone call from my mother interrupted us and sent us downstairs to the family room. As we watched the horror on television, and waited to hear from my mother that my brother, who works in mid-town Manhattan, was okay, we realized how lucky we were to have crossed the border when we did. We had considered staying another night on the road. If we had, that day would have been spent in a long line of cars, waiting to get home.
My kids were 12, 9, and 7 at the time. I watched the news all day. My boys, though riveted to the television at first, were secretly glad that I was glued to the television because that meant that school was done for the day, and they could play their Game Boys. A picture in contrasts as they didn't fully understand what this meant, but I felt sick, sensing that this was a huge moment in world history.
There are scores and scores of things that could be said about how the world has changed and how we feel about that awful day, but somehow, in a day and age when people still live under the threat of terrorism -- and some live with it daily, hourly -- it's more of a day to be quiet and reflect.
I think that is what I'll be doing today.