The Sunday Serving
I used to love flying. I remember going on trips with my father to Europe when I was little. The longer the flight, the better, just so I could savour the experience. I even liked the food (to be fair, we always flew first class because my father worked for a Japanese company and had more airmiles than Richard Branson). It was on a flight that my dad introduced me to smoked salmon (love it) and caviar (hate it). When he explained that caviar is fish eggs, I asked him if that meant he’d pee fishes when he went to the toilet. He said no, but later, at our hotel in Paris, he called me excitedly into the bathroom because he said there were fishes swimming in the bowl. Ha ha.
September 11 killed my love of flying. I still love the thrill of the adventure of travel, but I really hate being in an airplane. Every time I fly, I think of that day.
Each generation seems to have “that day” that they remember. Where were you when JFK was shot? Or John Lenon? How about when Marilyn Monroe killed herself? All of those seem so small in comparison.
As I said in a previous Sunday Serving that I wrote after the killing in Norway, I was at work when it happened. I remember my boss trying to make me leave the conference room to go back to my desk. His heart was in the right place; I was sobbing and he thought it might be best to get me away from the TV. But I was witnessing history. My country’s history. History that was taking place 40 minutes’ drive from where I grew up.
Today there will be a lot in the newspapers about 9/11 and the ten year anniversary. There will be story after story of loss, survival, hope, love and hate. But one of the ones I thought was most poignant was one that I read on Babble.com about being born on the worst of dates. How would that affect a child, when the whole country goes into yearly mourning on your birthdate? Is it possible to reclaim a day for yourself and make it your own? I hope so.
This Sunday Serving is dedicated to all the children of September 11.