On the morning of September 11, 2001 I was saying a sad goodbye to my mother who was in the later stages of Alzheimers in a nursing home in Jonesboro, Arkansas. My husband and I were girding for the long ride back to Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ontario where our 17 year old son was waiting at home for us. Then the planes hit the towers. Before I'd had time to recognize the enormity of what had just happened Harold said he had to step out. He returned a few moments later with gas cans and as much money as the bank machines would give him. We drove across the US in silence listening to NPR all the way. The skies were empty and we only saw one plane in the air. It was over Tennessee or Kentucky and we realized later it was probably George W. Bush on his way to Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska. We’d made reservations weeks before at the Talbott Tavern in Bardstown, Kentucky, hoping to have a good meal and a pleasant night to break up our journey. The dining room was closed, of course, and we sat with staff and a couple of others at the bar with our eyes glued to the tv, drinking bourbon Manhattans and not speaking a word.
When we hit New York State the following day we heard that most of the borders were closed. Lewiston was open but had lineups that were many hours long. We braced for a long wait but just as we reached Buffalo the border opened to Fort Erie and we crossed quickly. I was never so happy to be back on Canadian soil.
Each anniversary of this horrific day brings back the feelings of shock, fear, sadness for those who had lost their lives and also worry about our son who was home alone.
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