Sunday, September 11, 2011
Everyone has a story of where they were at 9/11, just like everyone in the generation before us had a story about Pearl Harbor. They are moments where time stands still for everyone.
That day, I was standing in my kitchen in Minden, Nevada, looking out the window as I rinsed dishes. I was listening to NPR.
The announcer said, "A small private plane has slammed into the World Trade Center." It didn't seem much at first. I didn't really react. The announcer went to to chat with the reporter about how small planes have hit tall buildings in the past, for example, the Empire State Building.
Then the report turned more ominous. There was a fire burning out of control.
I yelled to the living-room where my children--who were five, seven, and eleven--were watching morning cartoons before school and said, "turn on CNN."