That September Day

September in the Pacific Northwest is a glory all its own

…it’s hard to explain or define for someone else–you simply must experience it firsthand.

Although I’m stuck in traffic, my favorite CD is playing loud and clear and the soft and subtle glow of the sun sits right on my shoulder. There’s a tangible, radiant reminder that grounds me in the present gorgeousness that is Almost Autumn. Then the next song sends me right back to my childhood.

I hear the twang of guitar, the soft snare drum and musical notes weaving together, while a piano taps out a tune as if played by a nimble kitten. A signature voice enters the song, sending me back to a time when my mother sang these very same words, probably in our kitchen. I don’t suppose my 1960’s self thought of that period of my life as ‘simpler times,’ but they were.

Edging through traffic and singing along I’m moved, inside and out, conducting an invisible orchestra and singing along. *       

Try to remember the kind of September

When life was slow and oh, so mellow.

Try to remember the kind of September

When grass was green and grain so yellow.

Try to remember the kind of September

When you were a young and callow fellow,

Try to remember

And if you remember

Then follow…

This week marks twenty-five years since one particular September Day, the 11th to be exact and the past and present collide in my memory. 

The September days I used to remember are ones where the joy of the first day of school and crisp plaid dresses and black and white oxford shoes heralded a season of possibility ahead.  It was a time of cooler days and school carnivals, hide and seek till dark and Saturday bike rides and roller skating.

Septembers where neighbors herded and fed each other’s children, whether lunch time or dinner time. We shared swimming pools and picnics, phone lines and backyard conversations. 

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Why should we sing? Why should we remember? Because our right here, right now world is tenuous and fraught with fear. And the occasion of this September 11th reminds us just how perilous and fragile life is.

In September of 2001 my daughter and I were going to celebrate her graduation from Seattle culinary school with a trip to New York City. Our goal was to spend ten days with my nephew at his place in Brooklyn, combining sightseeing with a plan to meet Ruth Reichl, then Editor of  Gourmet Magazine and author of three of our favorite books. 

We’d spent five glorious days in and around Brooklyn and the night of the 10th met my nephew, who worked Downtown, for drinks at Windows on the World. The Marriott restaurant was 70 floors up, high above Manhattan.  

D. mentioned that from our vantage point we were in our own little weather pattern. Shortly thereafter a tremendous summer thunderstorm came through. Fierce clouds rolled in complete with lightning strikes and rain pelting the windows. We finished our drinks and headed down to the street where we purchased $5 umbrellas, quickly drying out on the way to the subway. where I met a famous writer.

The next morning was the day of our appointment with Ruth.  I vividly recall the voice message from her assistant, “See you at 11 on the 11^th.” We woke up to a crystal clear, blue sky day, a clean slate filled with promise.

I stood at the open kitchen window applying my make up when suddenly every single pigeon in the courtyard went silent. The next thing we felt was the earth shaking as the first plane hit, the towers began to tumble and the sky filled with ashes and paper glitter.

Frantic phone calls, walking through ash covered streets, cel phone towers going down, televisions pulled out onto the sidewalk while we all shuffled about looking for answers. It took us four days to manage a way to get home; we were forever changed.

When we returned home to Washington, I was in shock for about six weeks, although I didn’t know it at the time. I couldn’t talk on the phone and cook dinner at the same time. I had to be still whenever possible. Simultaneous input verbally and visually was overwhelming. I felt like I was walking through the days wrapped in cotton. ( I wrote a poem about it here.)

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It is impossible to forget the up close and personal events of that September Day, not simply what happened but how I felt. Tears and sobs come suddenly, choking my voice when I tell my grandkids about it was like to be there.

This puzzled me at first but I recalled that as an educator we remember:

• 10% of what we hear,
• 30% of what we see,
• 50% of what we see and hear,
• 70% of what we say,
• And 90% of what we DO. (Romain Rolland, 1866-1944).

In other words, our deepest memories are those that come via our bodies, the muscle, skin and bones that take in those experiences. Cell-deep, if you will. No wonder the tears come so easily, they’re literally buried in my DNA.

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This Friday marks the twenty-five year mark from the events of September 11^th. An entire generation has no experience of what happened that day, where they were at 8:58 am when the unthinkable news came on the radio or what it was like to watch the events unfold on live television.

All they have is what they have heard or read in a book or seen on the news, documentaries made after the fact. 

We need to tell our own stories, to keep our recollections alive about those traumatic days of terror and fear–as well as the miraculous heroism and heartache.

Not simply to recount what has been lost–over 3,000 lives!–but to remind each other of all the reasons to cherish Septembers–the beautiful beginnings of Fall, the gift of daily fresh starts and the treasure of songs that can tell a story.

Sing to each other. Tell your stories.

Try to remember.

*My mother died on September 11th, 1984. I get my love of singing from her; this song always makes me weep.

“Try to Remember” is from the Broadway musical, The Fantasticks, 1960. I was singing along with Josh Groban’s recording from his ‘Stages’ album, cranked up loud. Very loud.