By Lorry Myers
Through the ages, time is continually marked by unimaginable events. A birth in the manger, the discovery of a new world, the rise and fall of any number of empires. Dates are remembered and revered only to be lost when the last to remember forgets. July 4th, and December 7th, are dates connected with historical events in our country.
Then there is September 11th.
I huddled in the lobby of a bank and stared at a wall-mounted TV as the twin towers fell, changing the New York skyline and my faith in mankind. I stood at ground zero when it was still a hole in the ground and nearby windows remained blown out. I read the notes and touched the flowers and felt the helpless heaviness of loss.
September 11th changed us.
When my daughter announced with a pair of baby booties, that she would be having a September baby, I jumped up and down, feeling like I had won the lottery. Later, Hilary confided that any September birthdate would do, just not September 11th. Hilary didn’t want her baby’s birthdate to be a day connected with terror and sorrow.
“I can have this baby any day but September 11th,” Hilary declared, like somehow that would make it so.
When the call came in the middle of the night, my suitcase was packed, and I was ready to go. During the three-hour drive to a Kansas hospital, I tried to put aside the thought that the date was September 11th, the very day my daughter did not want to deliver. Yet here I was on the road to Kansas, too excited to care about the birthdate.
It was the birth that mattered.
Despite my daughter’s one request, my first grandchild was born on September 11th. The new mom was a champ, my grandson was healthy, and when I held that child in my arms, the world became a different place.
September 11th suddenly took on a new meaning.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard
