Tammie Hetzer-Womack
The Independent
ASHLAND —
Early September takes me back to the glint of the sun that morning.
I crawled through weeks of Frankfort red tape, finally approved to fly with the Kentucky State Police helicopter team, hunting dope harvests at dawn. Naïve of the dangers, I drove to their post around 8:30 a.m. for what I pictured to be a thrill-of-the-news-chase sort of day. The sunlit sky was perfectly clear.
Grey-fatigued guys were already there, busting jokes, eating McDonald’s sausage biscuits around a nook table. Minutes later, a distinct, uncertain silence shrouded their captain. Confounded, beside him at the TV, I was offered the choice to stay or go.
He swore what I’d see that Sept. 11 day might change me, and, God bless him, he tried to shield me, said I should go home. Even forewarned if the post emptied in a rush, I’d have no choice but to leave with them. The radio room rattled, troopers scrambled. Could a hijacked plane be hovering near Ashland airspace? Whispers of impromptu game plans.
Fearful young wives showed-up with strollers, longing for their husbands’ hugs and a safe haven. I called my daughter’s elementary school, wondering whether to pick her up.
One year later, at daybreak on Sept. 6, sun rays flecked brightly over Washington, D.C. I climbed aboard the Metro headed to the repairing Pentagon. A dear cousin who worked in the defense command center escorted me down its unsmiling, hushed corridor lit by fresh white paint. It blanketed a newly-constructed wall, masked the stench of burning jet fuel and a year’s worth of heartache.
A somber anniversary was in the midst. He wanted to show me how far America came in a year. Never again. Our country was good and ready for anything.
First light rose over the French Market during my March visit. Landmark Café du Monde fried a batch of beignets. Fishermen trawled near the once-crumbling New Orleans levy, sharing a crawfish catch to nearby Cajun kitchens.
The gulf is sun-drenched, but I still notice the neon spray-painted “X” beaming by the door of the ramshackle, Katrina-abandoned row house. It’s the same as the September morning, some 5 years ago now, when daylight fell on disaster. It marks the spot of darkness and death.
Labor Day usually calls these memories up. September sun isn’t the same for me.
I pray there’s never another sunup, awaking to tragedy. But history proves there will be deluges and gales, even cy
ber attacks, pandemics and man-made misfortune.
All we can do is protect ourselves. September marks National Preparedness Month. Make small efforts to safeguard your homes, businesses, schools and communities.
Get ready with a survival kit, jot down a family emergency plan, stay informed of potential risks, and build a stronger, prepared area by getting involved and teaching others. Learn how at www.ready.gov or www.citizencorps.gov
Americans find the light after the storm. May sun continue to shine on all of us.
