I tied up Pink and Blue to a bench and walked into the church grounds. I arrived at the first flag and turned the laminated, square paper attached with black cord to my face so I could read it. It was a photo of the NYFD Chaplain, Michael Judge, who died at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. Then I understood. I looked about me - 13 rows of 31 flags and one flag at the entrance and exit - 405 in all. One flag for every first responder who died that day and 2 others for local residents who lost a family member at WTC that day. Overwhelmed and awed, I slowly entered the tribute. As I walked through each row, I touched each photo, reading their name and rank and said a silent prayer of thanks to those who gave their life to save us. I am again, ten years later, moved to tears. 9/11 was a day that showed the best of us, the true spirit of our love for each other and the selflessness in which some of us sacrificed everything for the rest of us. So many rows, so many faces. It became a meditation for me and I fought back tears for all those lost that day - not just the first responders, but all the others as well. The dichotomy of this moment - of all these flags fluttering in this perfect sunny, blue-skied day was beautiful in its incredible sadness.
Halfway through, two men standing on the other side of the fence called out to me. One said, "That is really wonderful what you are doing - walking through looking at each picture." I looked up at him and suddenly I felt a huge lump in my throat. I tried to tell them why I was so compelled but all I could choke out was "I just wanted to take a moment to thank them for giving their life for me that day," and I started to cry. One of the men said, "I made that." I couldn't find the words to tell him how beautiful it was and just kept weeping. He jumped the fence and came over and we hugged.
His name was Phil and he was from Long Island but had been a DC firefighter from 1975 to 2001; he retired after 9/11 and lives here now and works at the Pepsi store. We talked about that day, and he shared with me how the first and last rows of first responders were photos of personal friends of his who were lost that day. He told me how he had worked on this project for three years to bring it to fruition for this weekend, this anniversary. He told me how the church agreed to let him display his work of art on their grounds. He told me that standing there watching me pay homage to his project, he was incredibly moved by how moved I was by his art. We both gave each other something unexpected and ten years later, the memory of that day still has the power to bind us together; perfect strangers, now friends. There will be a special remembrance service at the church Sunday evening and Phil is going to play the bagpipes - he learned to play them as part of this great creation of remembrance. I will be there, I hope everyone in town takes the time to pay their respects to our first responder heroes, to be touched by this art so infused with love.
I made my way back down the street to Ben's restaurant, my original destination. I ordered a dozen dinner rolls and an iced tea and then Ben came out of the kitchen in his customary striped pants and chef's hat. We chatted at the counter and then he asked me if I liked pumpkin pie. I said of course! Who doesn't? He wanted to know if I really liked pumpkin pie and I told him it was my favorite. He reached for a pie on top of the counter - it was his wife's creation and the winner of the State Fair's pie contest. He took it to the back and came back with it on a plate with whipped cream on the side. He pulled out two forks and we dug in. It was amazing. The pie was fantastic but it was topped with an oatmeal, brown sugar and pecan buttery crumble. We discussed the merits of butter and how it's pretty much good on everything. My dozen rolls in hand and my sweet tooth sated, I walked next door to the Middle Street Antiques and Flea Market where the giant metal chicken that I have been coveting since before I moved here resides. Worried the chicken would be gone, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw her familiar light blue metal tail as I approached the store. People leave goods out on the street here. No one steals them. If it was LA, you'd have to chain all this shit down, trust me. Finally, my resistance broken by tears and pie , I made a deal with Gail, the store owner, and the metal chicken is now in layaway pending her future relocation to her new home on Johnson Street.
Across the street, The Call of the Wild Art Gallery was having it's Grand Opening. I meandered about the objets d'art and bought a pair of delicate copper earrings with blue crystal beads. I watched as two upscale, very well-dressed, gay men bought a wonderful painting and I was glad I lived somewhere where gay people felt comfortable living there as well. I miss my LA gay boys. They're the best friends a straight girl can have. Really. Around the corner is the used book store, The Next Chapter. Inside, I met the owner Patti and an author doing a book signing, Deborah Wallis. She writes murder mysteries and all her book are set locally. I told them about my blog and they want to read it and I am both grateful and surprised by their genuine interest...we chatted for a while and I resumed my walk about town after securing a promise for coffee from Debbie. Next stop, the hardware store that I owed $1.33 for the house key I had made earlier. I forgot my wallet and they told me to take the key and come back and pay later. Really?
Meandering back up Middle Street, I came across the local theater group participating in a 9/11 tribute; it was also opening night for Guys and Dolls, so the players were singing songs and local town officials were giving speeches about giving back and contributing to your community in a way that makes a difference. People sat on chairs or the curb or stood in the street as children who would never know the horror of that day ran about laughing and screaming oblivious to the rest of us. And finally, I stopped at the Arts and Culture Center where to my sheer delight, I discovered an upcoming class on Raku - a type of pottery whereby the pots are fired and glazed using animal excrement. Yeah, I know, disgusting - but the process creates a beautiful iridescent glaze that is stunning. Great beauty comes at a price, you know. Anyway, I've wanted to learn the Raku process for over a year now and here it is - in my new town. It was a serendipitous day and I couldn't have planned it's perfectness if I wrote a script.
As I made my way home, the moon sat high in the darkening but still blue sky. I thought about 9/11 and about my friend and co-worker, Bruce Eagleson. He died that day in the South Tower. He evacuated and was out safely but then he went back in to help evacuate others. That's just the kind of guy he was. He left young sons and a wife behind. He worked at Westfield and reported to my boss, so I talked to him almost every day and I was lucky to get to know him in person as well. He was larger than life, always had a smile on his face - his enthusiasm for life was contagious, he loved his family, he loved his job, he loved his life.
Then I thought about an article I read in the Boston Globe this week about the people working at Logan Airport that fateful, terrible day - the ticket counter agent who checked in four of the terrorists, the security agent who waved them through with their hidden boxcutters, the flight attendant who was too sick to fly and the girl she knew - her friend - who took her flight and died - the theme of the article was survivor's guilt; most of these people are still haunted ten year later and their lives irrevocably changed and not in a good way, the article reads - and I thought how sad it was that they had not been able to move past that day and what came to me was this: Bruce and all the people who died that day would want nothing more than for those of us that survived - all of us - we are all survivors of that day - to be happy. We remember and honor those that are gone by living a good, happy life or else their deaths were in vain and the terrorists win.
So I think of Bruce and his laugh, and I think of Phil and his phenomenal art piece, and I think of all the wonderful people in my new town who are truly glad that I moved here, who show me that every day with their welcoming smiles and their genuine interest in their new neighbor, and for the first time in a very long time, as I walked up Middle Street towards Johnson Street, I feel that I have finally found my spot - I am home.
Thank you.
BAWK! My new chicken.
Sign outside the Hardware Store
Pax.
No comments:
Post a Comment