11 September 2001

I'm not sure at all why I started to write this, but I know in hindsight that it helped me reach a peaceful place that I might not otherwise have found. My yesterday began on the taxiway at Logan Airport in Boston. American Airlines flight 195 prepared to depart for San Francisco at 9am. A 767. In row 33 of the 2-3-2 configuration, I settled in to the three center seats. The first indication of events out of the ordinary--a call over the intercom for the flight attendants to come forward. A few passengers looked up in response. A short while later, the pilot informed us of a hold away from the gate. My thoughts switched to the juggling of my afternoon schedule in SF. Then a bad sign--the flight attendants started the movie. A long wait followed by another announcement--a security issue, back to the gate. SF would have to wait, it seemed, possibly the victim of a passenger problem or a questionable piece of luggage. Absolutely no mobile phones, actively enforced. Still, no sign of trouble beyond our particular grounded aluminum cylinder. Just past 10am, as the intercom sounded yet again, I set aside Vanity Fair and Gore Vidal's article on Timothy McVeigh. We learned what most of America had known for as much as an hour: multiple hijackings, multiple explosions, the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, chaos. Phone use now allowed, circuits busy. Still unaware of the import of the tragedies or the significance of my being unreachable, after several tries I got through to my home. Her prior 60 minutes had been dramatically more disturbing than the false calm on board my flight. She had seen the television images condemning two aircraft but knew nothing of my own. Reassurances to her, my family, and my office. Then, deplaning and a crowded walk through an unnaturally silent terminal to the security checkpoint, the parking garage, the tunnel, the turnpike, and finally home. Only then the words and images of they day. I disagreed most with the repeated news descriptions of the sophistication and precision of the attacks. Not so. Only knives, watches, novice pilot training, and evil. At soccer practice that afternoon, many more fathers than usual strolled the sidelines. One observed the happy players, noting a "pocket of sanity." I continue to believe that it is the insanity that occupies the pockets. Of the many images pressed upon me yesterday, I choose to carry forward with me the one of children at play.