story1474.xml
Title
story1474.xml
Source
born-digital
Media Type
story
Date Entered
2002-08-26
911DA Story: Story
The ?America? Remembers
By Alicia Earle Renner
All rights reserved
The telephone is ringing. I am gardening early before the September heat builds. My hands caked with terra firma. I remember the telephone?s persistence. The erratic answering machine is again... not picking up. One more time I remind myself to replace it. ? Piece of junk? I am muttering , as I head to the house. Two minutes ago I was making my small world more beautiful with exotic tropical plants. The lushness of Key West is incredible and fragrant. Bright, saturated hues glimmer through my white picket fence, a perfect paradise, far away from any urban jungle. Now I am running for the phone. The damp smell of mother Earth increases as I bring my hand closer to my ear.
The voice on the other end is firm and unbending. The frankness of his tone wipes the smile off my face. ?TURN ON THE TELEVISION!? shouts my good friend ?What Channel?? I ask wincing. ?IT DOESN'T MATTER, JUST TURN IT ON!?
Mud and all, I reach for the power button. Peter Jennings is facing me larger than life. His serious brown eyes tell a thousand stories, his lips only one... terror from above, maybe an accident. Then I see the plume of smoke from the North Tower of the World Trade Center, a giant gaping hole where flames from the very bowels of Hell seem to be licking the sky. I am still holding the phone. My other hand leaves a dark brown print on my mouth and the sides of my face. I am standing in my living room watching a surrealistic moment in history. Breathless.
The second plane sneaks around and hits from behind. The whole world sees it live on television. I recall my friends there are possibly trapped inside. I remember my brother is in another Manhattan skyscraper. I hang up on my friend and call my brother Jon. Futile. Phones are jammed, cell lines don?t work. Now I feel the breath and the heartbeat of a Nation?s panic. Then the Pentagon appears. Hell?s fury has found it?s way there too. I stood there dumbfounded with mud on my face for most of the morning. At any other given moment an earthen hand print cartoon like might have been funny. I look, the way America feels, standing, staring, eyes filled with tears with mud on my face. Loss of life is unimaginable. Our impregnable armor pierced with silent ease. The United States never had to look over it?s shoulder...until now.
I found my brother thank God, but that afternoon I lost four of my friends. People that I played spin the bottle with as a nerdy teenager, gone forever. Even one of my parent?s friends decided to end his life by jumping instead of burning. What a choice to make. We have all been touched, we all have mud on our faces.
I heard great tales of heroism, performed by ordinary people that day. If it had not been for the actions of those plane passengers we would be mourning one more symbol of American freedom; the White House. What a choice to make, be killed by plunging into another iconic structure, or fight for the preservation of the American spirit and risk the consequences. Cell phones ringing form the air reach the ground, just to say ?goodbye? and ?I love you?, ?remember me but remember that you must live life, and that you are free?. That plane too, would be taken by those flames; those demonic flames. Fear of flying, driving, living, dying, Americans are afraid to open their mailboxes, let alone travel. The emotional impact of the 11th is great , the economic impact is even greater. The stock market spasms to all time lows. People cancel their vacations. Global tourism halts. Worried looks on the faces of Duval street waitresses sober me. They have nothing to do except worry.
Harold Wheeler director of the Monroe County Tourist Development Council tells me that people are not afraid to fly today as they were a year ago, the economy however, has just soured. Hotels are dropping their rates to make up for head counts, causing bed taxes to go down, affecting advertising. Because of room rate deals, occupancy numbers equal last year, yet the quality of tourist dollar has changed, they are not spending. We depend on tourist spending. The economy is cyclical, it will come back... we hope. I too realize my own earning power eventually will steady. I still have one more spiritual task, I must go home to New York.
This is why I travel with the Schooner America summering in Newport Rhode Island. She is making the journey south to New York Harbor for the September 11 remembrances. I want to say goodbye to my friends who died and to remember that life goes on sometimes with pomp and circumstance. I want to see all those ships in the harbor honor the dead and to let the rest of the world know that freedom still rings loud and clear, even if the bells are a bit cracked.
When I was little I used to lie on the bow of my grandfather?s boat and look up at the stars in the prussian blue sky. Together we would pick out the constellations. Looking up at the same prussian blue sky on the deck of ?America ?I wonder what Orion?s belt would look like if there were two stars missing. Now I begin to wonder what New York will look like with two of her stars missing.
By Alicia Earle Renner
All rights reserved
The telephone is ringing. I am gardening early before the September heat builds. My hands caked with terra firma. I remember the telephone?s persistence. The erratic answering machine is again... not picking up. One more time I remind myself to replace it. ? Piece of junk? I am muttering , as I head to the house. Two minutes ago I was making my small world more beautiful with exotic tropical plants. The lushness of Key West is incredible and fragrant. Bright, saturated hues glimmer through my white picket fence, a perfect paradise, far away from any urban jungle. Now I am running for the phone. The damp smell of mother Earth increases as I bring my hand closer to my ear.
The voice on the other end is firm and unbending. The frankness of his tone wipes the smile off my face. ?TURN ON THE TELEVISION!? shouts my good friend ?What Channel?? I ask wincing. ?IT DOESN'T MATTER, JUST TURN IT ON!?
Mud and all, I reach for the power button. Peter Jennings is facing me larger than life. His serious brown eyes tell a thousand stories, his lips only one... terror from above, maybe an accident. Then I see the plume of smoke from the North Tower of the World Trade Center, a giant gaping hole where flames from the very bowels of Hell seem to be licking the sky. I am still holding the phone. My other hand leaves a dark brown print on my mouth and the sides of my face. I am standing in my living room watching a surrealistic moment in history. Breathless.
The second plane sneaks around and hits from behind. The whole world sees it live on television. I recall my friends there are possibly trapped inside. I remember my brother is in another Manhattan skyscraper. I hang up on my friend and call my brother Jon. Futile. Phones are jammed, cell lines don?t work. Now I feel the breath and the heartbeat of a Nation?s panic. Then the Pentagon appears. Hell?s fury has found it?s way there too. I stood there dumbfounded with mud on my face for most of the morning. At any other given moment an earthen hand print cartoon like might have been funny. I look, the way America feels, standing, staring, eyes filled with tears with mud on my face. Loss of life is unimaginable. Our impregnable armor pierced with silent ease. The United States never had to look over it?s shoulder...until now.
I found my brother thank God, but that afternoon I lost four of my friends. People that I played spin the bottle with as a nerdy teenager, gone forever. Even one of my parent?s friends decided to end his life by jumping instead of burning. What a choice to make. We have all been touched, we all have mud on our faces.
I heard great tales of heroism, performed by ordinary people that day. If it had not been for the actions of those plane passengers we would be mourning one more symbol of American freedom; the White House. What a choice to make, be killed by plunging into another iconic structure, or fight for the preservation of the American spirit and risk the consequences. Cell phones ringing form the air reach the ground, just to say ?goodbye? and ?I love you?, ?remember me but remember that you must live life, and that you are free?. That plane too, would be taken by those flames; those demonic flames. Fear of flying, driving, living, dying, Americans are afraid to open their mailboxes, let alone travel. The emotional impact of the 11th is great , the economic impact is even greater. The stock market spasms to all time lows. People cancel their vacations. Global tourism halts. Worried looks on the faces of Duval street waitresses sober me. They have nothing to do except worry.
Harold Wheeler director of the Monroe County Tourist Development Council tells me that people are not afraid to fly today as they were a year ago, the economy however, has just soured. Hotels are dropping their rates to make up for head counts, causing bed taxes to go down, affecting advertising. Because of room rate deals, occupancy numbers equal last year, yet the quality of tourist dollar has changed, they are not spending. We depend on tourist spending. The economy is cyclical, it will come back... we hope. I too realize my own earning power eventually will steady. I still have one more spiritual task, I must go home to New York.
This is why I travel with the Schooner America summering in Newport Rhode Island. She is making the journey south to New York Harbor for the September 11 remembrances. I want to say goodbye to my friends who died and to remember that life goes on sometimes with pomp and circumstance. I want to see all those ships in the harbor honor the dead and to let the rest of the world know that freedom still rings loud and clear, even if the bells are a bit cracked.
When I was little I used to lie on the bow of my grandfather?s boat and look up at the stars in the prussian blue sky. Together we would pick out the constellations. Looking up at the same prussian blue sky on the deck of ?America ?I wonder what Orion?s belt would look like if there were two stars missing. Now I begin to wonder what New York will look like with two of her stars missing.
Collection
Citation
“story1474.xml,” September 11 Digital Archive, accessed December 28, 2025, https://911digitalarchive.org/items/show/14447.