On the morning of September 10, 2001 people were going about their regular routines. They went about those jobs the same way they had gone about them the day, and week before. The only difference was: we didn't notice.
On the morning of September 10, firefighters were checking their equipment. Some were coming off shift chatting with their colleagues coming on for the day, doing firefighter stuff, talking firefighter talk.
Some of them had responded to a call the night before, having saved someone's home, an activity which might have made page 23A of the local newspaper.
On the morning of September 10, police officers were getting ready to take to the streets, reading over the incident reports from the night before, chatting with their colleagues coming in from a night on patrol, doing cop stuff, talking cop talk.
In some cases a good bust might have gone down making the streets safer for a few years, an activity which might have made the small-type "police report" box of the metro section.
On the morning of September 10, postal workers came to work to deal with their share of the billions of pieces of mail which move through the system every day. Each piece of mail moved past them too quickly for them to know whether it was a utility bill, an advertisement, a solicitation from someone's college, or a love letter.
They did not know that a week later they would be America's first line of defense against bio-terrorism.
On the morning of September 10, nurses from the overnight shift were gathered at the floor station preparing to hand off the care of their patients to the day shift crew.
Perhaps the night before one had seen an alarm on a monitor, rushed in, adjusted a piece of equipment, saved someone's life, and gone back to their station; all without waking the person in the next bed.
On the morning of September 10, flight attendants were checking supplies of coffee, milk, and breakfast cereal preparing for a day of two, three or four take offs and landings. Pilots were studying route charts and weather reports, signing for fuel deliveries and going through their checklists.
The day before, many of them had responded to a warning light in the cockpit, or soothed a troubled passenger, bringing both the airplane and the passenger safely to earth; all part of their training and experience.
On the morning of September 10, military personnel were waking to reveille; groaning at the early hour, as they prepared for another day of training, of maintenance, and of formations.
The night before, some young man or woman helped a pilot land a multi-million dollar airplane on the rolling deck of an aircraft carrier; and some young man or woman helped move a rifle platoon into the correct position during a night exercise in the mountains of northern New York. "No," they would have shrugged in that offhand manner of young people in the military, "biggie."
On the morning of September 10, moms and dads were begging their kids to get dressed or they were going to be late for school. Lunch boxes were being packed and arrangements were being made to get them to or from school or practice or rehearsal.
The night before many had helped with arithmetic homework, or worried through a mild fever, or cuddled a child back to sleep after checking the closet for monsters yet one more time the way moms and dads have done every night for thousands of years.
Starting one day later, on September 11, every one of those activities by every one of those people took on a new importance. They are not doing anything differently. We are watching them do it with a new clarity, with a new respect bordering on a new reverence.
Each of them has lost a colleague since the morning of September 10, 2001. We give thanks for those who remain. And we say a prayer for every family which will have an empty seat at the table tomorrow.
On a personal note, I want to thank the Mullings Director of Standards and Practices for suggesting this column.
For her and for The Lad, my gratitude extends to the very limits of the universe and to the farthest edges of heaven.
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