story5994.xml

story5994.xml

born-digital

story

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no

2002-09-12

Sometimes you're asked where you were when JFK was assassinated; where were you when Neil Armstrong, of Apollo 11, stepped on the moon; where were you during the Apollo 13 disaster; where you were when the space shuttle Challenger exploded. I clearly remember all of them.

With JFK, I was sitting in my social studies classroom in elementary school in Dallas (my home town) when the principal came on the intercom and told us President Kennedy had been assassinated. My classmates and I were really too young to truly understand the implications. The teacher had to explain what "assassinated" meant. I remember crying, but I wasn't really sure why. I hadn't yet experienced a death close to me -- not until the next year when my father's father passed away. And I remember crying.

I was sitting on the floor of the living room at home watching TV when Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon. My Dad worked as a subcontractor on the U.S.S. Watertown (via LTV Aerospace) the refitted Navy ship that tracked the re-entry of the Apollo spacecrafts from their moonshots. I remember crying because of the accomplishment and my pride in my Dad's involvement.

I stayed home from school on the days during the Apollo 13 near-disaster because my Mom thought my Dad needed the moral support. He was still working for LTV. We watched it all as it unfolded on TV. I remember crying tears of fear and tears of happiness when Jim Lovell and crew splashed down safely.

I was sitting at work in a law firm in downtown Dallas on the day of the Challenger catastrophe. I remember crying like a baby. I still loved the space program then and still do.

On September 11, 2001, I had already been very ill for a long time and out of work since May 2nd of 2001. My sleep cycle was off because of my illness. I tended to go to sleep very late and wake up very late. For some reason, on the night of the 10th, I went to sleep with the TV on, and, for reasons unknown to me, awoke very early -- about 7 a.m. CST. I was feeling, physically, very bad, but was watching early morning television news programs.

While not in New York City, I watched it live as it happened. I was shocked beyond words as each new horribly intentional plane crash unfolded. I remember crying in disbelief and unconsolably.

As reports of casualties poured in, I thought of my late Dad, who had retired from the Dallas P.D. as a civilian employee of the Evidence Unit (he was their firearms expert), my late sister who had been a Dallas Reserve Police Officer and my uncle, a retired Dallas firefighter. I remember crying even more unconsolably because I missed my Dad and my sister so badly.

As the day continued, reports poured in that these deeds were perpetrated by Osama Bin Laden and Al Qaeda, I then remembered something my Dad had told me and my sister over the years. (My Dad passed away from cancer after a valiant battle on June 28th, 1987 -- and, yes, I *still* called him "Daddy" -- even at my "advanced age" of 42.)

My Dad had been an airplane mechanic, helicopter mechanic and long- and short arms expert and instructor during World War II for the Army Air Corps. He never served overseas as it was felt his talents could be better served on this side of the world. A lot of people do not consider a veteran like him to be a hero, but *I* did. He helped keep the planes in the air and he taught young men to shoot. Hopefully a lot of men and boys came home because of his talents and contributions to the war effort.

My Dad always had great intuition and repeatedly commented that someday we'd be hit. We had "become too complacent," he said. In current memory, he said, we'd never really been hit on home soil by the "enemy" except at Pearl Harbor, but that Pearl was so far away, it was out of most peoples' memories and so many WWII vets were gone, and more dying every day, as recorded by Tom Brokaw (who is one of my favorite authors).

As it turned out, my Dad was correct and I cried thinking about it and him and my sister as I miss them very much. My Mother, Iris Iwana Stovall Virgil, by the way, is still alive and missing both of them as much as I do. She was a WWII hero, too -- she was drafted out of the 11th grade to become a Western Union operator and served her country in that capacity.

We *all* need to learn to be more accepting of each other -- worldwide -- but at the same time, have someone to guard our backs. We should be thanking EVERY firefighter, peace officer, all public servants, all persons serving in any branch of the armed services and never again take them or our freedom for granted.

Freedom is a precious commodity in this world and September 11th, 2001 should have taught us this. At least I hope it did or all the deaths suffered that day will have been for naught.

I've always been patriotic due to my parents' work during WWII and their stories about that war, but now I proudly fly an American flag every day, not just on flag day or the occasional July 4th. I've noticed flags weren't as prevalent today, a year later, as they were last year, which makes me sad.

We're becoming complacent again. People want to forget the bad things and remember only the good. As someone once said (and I'm paraphrasing as I do not have an eidetic memory), "those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it."

I will never forget December 7, 1941 -- even though I wasn't there (or even thought of at that point) -- through the stories my parents told me. I'm one of the few people I know, of my age, who even cares about WWII, what happened then or remembers the veterans, but I simply cannot forget that day or those men and the victims of that war.

My words may not be very profound in the overall realm of things, but, as with 1941, I WILL NEVER FORGET SEPTEMBER 11, 2001.

GOD BLESS GEORGE W. BUSH AND GOD BLESS THE U.S.A. I will always remember ... and cry ... and hope for a better world.

I write this in loving memory of my father, Willis Edgar Virgil, Jr., November 27, 1919 - June 28, 1987; my sister, Alta Jo Virgil, October 10, 1951 - March 16, 1984 and in honor of my Mom, a breast cancer survivor for three years, born September 23, 1925.