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Rural Parenting on 9/11
Now that my sons are in their forties, they sometimes tell me “good things” about growing up in rural Vermont. But on September 11, 2001, both of them were firmly re-rooted in American cities, and we had just become dependent on cell phones and email to keep in touch with each other.
The son in New Haven, Connecticut, still had phone service after the towers were struck. And New Haven was far enough away from downtown NYC that I could feel he was safe. You’d think 50 percent reassurance would be a good amount for a mom — but what actually happened next was that ALL of my worry became fastened to my younger son. It took about 15 hours for him to find a pay phone that worked, and call me.
Of course, I wept with relief.
To anyone watching, it might seem like I was still in the same crying jag that had started when the towers were struck, when the plane sailed into the Pentagon, when the heroes on the flight over Pennsylvania stopped the planned attack their plane had been headed into, and died in the process.
But I recognized the truth about myself: Terrified as I was for my country, broken hearted at the prospect of global warfare, horrified at the losses piling up daily (including our nation’s loss of confidence), I was first and foremost a mother.
