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Second entry today. The Samurai and I were just watching "9/11" and remembering where we were five years ago. In 2001, Frank's brother, Brian,had just left the Air Force to fly for US Airways. He was glad to be away from the endless red tape and frustration he'd experienced in the service. He told us he was tired of flying planes that were falling apart, tired of not flying enough, tired of feeling useless. He wanted to fly nice, clean, well-maintained planes full of civilians. He wanted to see his wife and kids regularly, and have a normal-guy life. We were glad he wasn't flying B52s loaded with nukes (that was the first Gulf War) or poor old C130s anymore. We liked seeing him and his family more often, since they had moved from Florida to Winchester. At 10 AM on 9/11, I was giving a reading pretest to a room full of sleepy 8th graders. My friend Kathy appeared at my door, eyes wide. She motioned frantically for me to come out into the hall. "Someone's crashed a plane into the Pentagon, and another into the World Trade Center," she whispered. Brian's flying today, I thought. I asked Kathy to find out what kind of plane had crashed. Brian was flying small commuter planes--he derisively called them "Barbie jets." While I waited for Kathy to return, my mind raced. What would we all do without Brian? We had already lost Mom to cancer, and Beth's dad had passed away around the same time. Brian's kids had one grandparent left, the Preacher, but they needed their dad.Frank and Brian were closer than they'd ever been. Just thinking about the ragged hole that Brian's death would leave in our hearts gave me chills. When Kathy returned with more details, I could relax. They were large planes, and they weren't US Air. We were all still horrified, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that Brian was okay. I didn't count on his frustration. In the months following 9/11, he was essentially grounded, and eventually laid off. He kept flying with the Air National Guard, and finally decided to return to the Air Force. Post 9/11, the Air Force needed guys like Brian. He went all over the world, flew lots of differentl planes, and did lots of stuff he couldn't discuss. He'd say, "I could tell ya, but I'd have to shoot ya." He was working hard, but he was useful, and that made him happy. His boyish grin became a bit more lined and weathered, but his blue eyes still twinkled when he was up to something. He knew he'd be sent to Iraq eventually. He prepared us well, so we'd be strong for each other if he didn't come back. When his plane went down, the hole in my heart felt familiar. I'd been there before on 9/11/2001, but this time he wasn't okay. Even though Brian died on Memorial Day 2005, in some weird way, to me, he died on 9/11, too. |
 
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9/11