It’s almost noon on 9/11 and so far not a single person has mentioned–even casually–that something might have happened on this date in relatively recent history. Not a one. Nobody even gave me that wordless half-grin/half-grimace that means “I have no idea what to say, but I want you to know I care.” Oh, well. People here were 2,000 miles away when the tower squashed my uncle. They didn’t smell burned bodies. They didn’t get their hearts broken on a daily basis for months as missing posters were bleached by the sun, soaked through by fall weather and eventually left for dead.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Guess I’ll have to provide my own honor, my own memory. I’ll start by packing a suitcase. I’ve had enough of this small-town, world-events-are-for-other-people crap. By tomorrow night I’ll be back with people who understand that polo ponies are a poor substitute for living history.
Sorry, Wyoming. Ignoring the events of the past seven years won’t make them disappear.
It is a human characteristic that we remember those things most that affect us most. Ask people in Sheridan about the “April blizzard” and they remember it. I vividly remember the Loma Prieta earthquake when the Oakland freeway pancaked, smashing vehicles and the occupants. I’ll never forget where I was when I saw (on TV) the second plane hit the towers or Uncle Charles pointing out where the towers used to be visible from a street near his loft or the smell he smelled for days (or was it weeks?) afterwards. Nor will I forget my sister-in-law’s terrified voice on the answering machine wondering where her husband was. (Bill was flying from Sheridan to Denver when all the airports were shut down. He landed safely in Denver, but it was two days later that he had to drive home to Indiana. It was several hours on that day before he was able to call his wife to tell her he was safe.) And a friend of mine was in the Pentagon when that building was hit. He was, fortunately, on the other side of the building. All this does, of course, pale in comparison to losing an uncle. Or any loved one. And at least Bill was able to call his wife and get home to her. I am sorry, Chris, that you and your family lost so much. Not all Wyoming-ites are clueless (well, I am a transplant). I hope you have a good, safe trip.
I chose to honor Jimmy by writing to another who had lost both her parents much too soon.