Christmas Gifts

As many of you know, sometimes it is very difficult to pick out the ideal present for a friend or relative. Many times they end up returning it, not using it, or re-gifting it.

Many years ago people were just stuck with the gift. There were no other options.

Here is a list of famous people and an appropriate gift for them.

Add more if you like

Adam  -gift certificate for Applebee’s

Noah – gift card for Home Depot

Moses—Portable tape recorder

Richard Nixon—Broken tape recorder

William Shakespeare – retractable quill

Nostradamus – Mayan desk calendar

Donald Trump –Bosely hair club membership

George W. Bush – A different job

Eve –A rib

Bob Dylan –Membership in AARP

Obe Wan Kenobe –a pair of boxer shorts

Popeye – A beard to cover his deformed chin

Olive Oil – A shadow

Ed Sullivan – A very large shoe

Margaret Thatcher –ambition

Superman –Frequent flyer miles

Marie Antoinette – a truckload of Hostess “Twinkies”

The “Invisible” Man – anything invisible

Hillary Clinton – Fifteen minutes in a room alone with Monica

Not Another One!!

Yesterday, Billie sent me an email to me while I was at work. It was really nothing special but it did contain a very curios attachment that I want to tell you all about.

First, let me backtrack a bit so I can fill you in on a hobby of mine that you need to know about. If I don't this story will make absolutely no sense at all.  I have researched my family tree-- I don't mean I discovered a few missing uncles and aunts here and there- I mean I really researched my family tree. So much that I discovered a tiny hair of a connection to Isaac Newton. That's right, the apple guy.

I wanted to know about more Spaights and I knew they were in Ireland.  So I wrote a general inquiry titled "desperately seeking Spaights" and to my surprise, I received answers. Not one or two answers, mind you, I got a crapload of answers. Maybe they were all Spaight fans or maybe they were all Madonna fans- I don't and I really could care less. I was happy that I received any answer, period.

Some of the writers who answered were interesting enough, some answered by mistake, but some were g-damn experts in genealogy and helped me tremendously.  Fact is, if it were not for the suggestion of one genealogist, I doubt I would be aware of the many cousins and uncles I eventually contacted in the land of Leprechauns.

Ah yes, about that email Billie sent me. . .

The attachment was another answer to my original inquiry I posted over a year ago. The person  said he was related to another Spaight in Ireland but he thinks there still could be a link between the two Spaights. He also said that more Spaights who I am related to are in a place called SixMileBridge.   But I already knew that. So what the big deal? Why am I wasting your time with this? What the heck is new? Why am I asking so many questions?

The person who wrote me is a fellow by the name of Bill Clinton - - NOT!

The guys name was a familiar one to me.  It was one I have been putting on birthday cards, backs of credit cards, I.R.S. forms, and this blog.  That's right. I made contact with the other Jim Spaight.

The more I find out about my other self, the more I will tell you.  So stay tuned.

Transit Update

I was riding on the "F" train yesterday morning somewhere between Roosevelt Island and Lexington Avenue when I noticed that something wasn't quite right.  While I was leaning on one of those silver sliding subway car doors, ya know the ones that bear the warning "Please do not lean on door", I sensed something was off.

Further down in the middle of this crowded car of early morning commuters I saw a commotion starting to brew. No, it wasn't a fight, thank goodness, it was a stirring of the crowd caused by a passenger passing out. I stretched my neck and stood on my toes to see more but I was interrupted by the voices of a passenger shouting, "Press the emergency button for help! Press it now!"

Another voice asked the carload of visibly concerned riders,
"Does anybody have any chocolate?"
Immediately people were passing Hershey bars and Andes mints to the area where the voice came from. I gathered from the bits and pieces I did hear that the young woman in her early forties had fainted momentarily from lack of diabetic medicine.

The train stopped at the closest station and I saw the good samaritans who rushed to the woman's aid. Usually when an incident like this occurs one person helps.  Not yesterday. I was proud to see a majority of riders dispelled the label that New Yorkers are cold. It's so good to know that New Yorkers have learned to watch their neighbors back.

Last I saw of that young woman was when she sat recovering on the platform bench. She appeared much better and several riders shouted through the trains closing doors a heartfelt, "Good luck and be well."

And may I say to those people who extended themselves in her aid, "Bless you all.  You are my heros now."

I'm Still Writing

I haven't written here as much as I had in the past and I want to tell everyone the reason.

For the past several weeks I was writing what I hope may become "The Great American Novel." And it's a lot harder than I thought it was going to be. Sure I have lengthy spurts of time pounding out crap for it on the keyboard. All the while, dirty dishes are amassing in the sink and dust continues to settle on furniture and wherever else dust is suppose to settle. Not to mention I haven't cleaned the kitty litter box in over a month nor refilled my cats water and food dishes. (Those furry felines do look a tad thin).

But what about me, you ask? Don't worry I have developed this almost superhuman skill of retaining body fluid--even when my kidneys are screaming "get this stuff out of me!!"

Billie?? Haven't bumped into her recently. I know we live in the same place and are madly in love with one another but what can I say, you gotta do what ya gotta do. And I keep sitting in front of her computer on her chair in her office writting and writting and misspelling what I'm writing.

So love to all of you and take care of yourselves.  I heard that there was a storm recently. Was New York effected?

Jimmy

Tracing Isaiah's Roots

Isaiah smiled when he heard the familiar bong of his desktop computer start up.  The retired black history professor stroked his silver beard and waited. He hoped the sudden power outage brought on by Hurricane Sandy had not wiped out all the research he had compiled on his Mac.

While biting his lower lip he signed into “Ancestry.com”; tapped the “Enter” key, then released a hearty sigh of relief.

“Whew! That was a close one, Isaiah.” 

He said to himself smiling at all his unharmed charts and graphs. 

He knew he would have been devastated had he lost the three years of data that resulted from mining through stacks of brittle county documents and parched newspapers.  Ever since Isaiah had stopped teaching he used all his free time searching for his family ancestry.  He knew his quest was going to be challenging, no, it was going to be formidable.  After all “Washington” was most assuredly a common name—probably as common as common can be.

One night, at his rickety roll top desk, Isaiah discovered in an old dusty ledger book of 1789 landowners a name that he always saw on every one dollar bill.  He peered through his pocket magnifying glass to examine the signature more closely.

“Well, well, well . . .Isaiah,” he said to himself with surprise. “Our county ledger has George Washington listed here as the owner of the very same farm your great, great, great grandfather Jeremiah lived.  Hmmm.”

The very next morning, Isaiah headed to the New Haven Historical Society with a spiral notebook in one hand and a thermos of hot coffee in the other. He needed an answer to a burning question that plagued him.  Why was his ancestor listed in the 1789 ledger but not in the 1780 ledger?  He was still a young man.

Isaiah stopped advancing the microfilm when he came across a full column article that deeply disturbed him yet answered his questions as well.  He sat back, cleared the tear from his eye and read aloud almost reverently,

“Last night the body of local negro farmer was found burned and hanging in Town Square.  When questioned, authorities would not say if they are holding any suspects.  They admit, however, the investigation would continue normally.
As of this writing no one has come forth to claim the deceased farmer, known to the town as simply Jeremiah. "

Isaiah advanced the microfilm and read a related article that put a smile on his already sickened face.  He read the headline,

“Legal steps taken to right wrong’George Washington, landowner of several neighboring farmlands has asked for the remains of a murdered farmer so he could give him a proper burial.  The New Haven Gazette has learned that Mr. Washington plans to transfer the remains to rest below the tree in which the deceased was hanged.  When asked his reason, Mr. Washington said vehemently, “Because I want everyone to know that Jeremiah was my son.”

Isaiah felt his sorrows evaporate and he began to chuckle and then he laughed-- louder and louder still.

He returned to his room and sat at his rickety roll top desk and turned on his computer to read the news on Yahoo.  The very first article caused him to bolt upright and re-read. “Blah, blah, blah, skeleton uprooted . . . bleh, bleh . . .New Haven . . .COLONIAL . . .

The excited history professor picked up a phone and dialed.  When he heard a friendly voice answer, “Hello, New Haven Landmark Society” he began, “Have I got a story for you.”

Sandy Stirs My Thoughts

This is what we see every Fall.

When I look out of the corner widow of my apartment I see the trees.  Many are full of dark green and lightly golden leaves from the summer that just passed. Other trees bear small patches of rust-colored leaves on their uppermost branches. The trees are all different sizes and shapes. Two of the tallest seem as if they are trying to hold up the sky.  Truly, it is a majestic sight—one that is rare for this time of year.  And it is rarer still in that I feel that view is there only for me.

This morning I can see that the top of these very same trees appear to be dancing in the wind. After a night of constant light rain, the branches are haphazardly swaying through each passing gust of wind. The green and lightly golden leaves are spiraling; then starting to move to and fro, then up and down. They then all come to a rest until the next gust, when the whole dance starts all over again.

Occasionally, stronger and quicker bursts of wind cause the thicker and older trees to bend, then unbend. It’s sort-of like the big trees were arm-wrestling with the wind and each was too mighty to lose. It’s a draw.

While the trees are moving about, thicker raindrops tear through the leaves and unhinge many to flutter in the breeze to the ground below.

“So far so good,” I think to myself.  My view of the trees is still intact. But what of the approaching storm with winds strong enough to unearth the strongest of trees?  Is it right that nature destroys nature? But what of my view?

Then I realize my answer:  Of course it is right that nature destroys nature.  It’s just starting to recycle itself.

Besides, I think, maybe once renewed, my view will be even more spectacular.

Finally on stage for the first time . . .

KABOOM-KISH echoed through the garage from Danny's emerald green "Tama" drum set.

That was my cue.  I took a deep breath  and nervously tightened the fabric strap attached to my banana colored electric guitar then stepped toward the standing microphone in front of me.  I saw Stephanie, who was at her Yamaha keyboards make a tiny wave at Kayla and Sammie.  Both of them waved at their dad who pointed a drumstick at me and I said to the growing crowd of family and friends,

"Thank you, everyone.  Thank you. Now before we get this thing started, allow me to introduce you to some people who, obviously, need no introduction at all.
       
"Leading the band on drums and more importantly, the father of my two beautiful nieces. . .  Danny."

This was followed by the customary ba-da-bump of the drums and a roar from the audience.

"Next, we have Danny's little girls, Kayla and Sammie who will be accompanying him on their miniature drums."

Again came the ba-da-bump.  Only this time a symbol vibrated with a KISH.

"Yeah!" both girls giggled, "we rock!" More applause mixed with laughter.

"Let's hear some noise for Stephanie who, I'm told can perform musical magic on her new Yamaha keyboards." I smiled and continued, "Yup, let's go Steph.  Alright!"

Once more . . .ba-da-bump.  Then the crowd began to cheer louder.
"And. . . and. . ." I waited for the cheering to subside so I could announce, " for the first time anywhere, my brother and your cook, Jack."

"Whooowee, alright!" Joanne yelled as she jumped amidst the crowd.

When the cheering subsided, Jack who was on a bar stool with his back to the crowd, breathed into the microphone murmured , "Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen."

I looked at his feet and saw he had connected a vocal synthesizer to his mike.  A brilliant move which can add pitch tones and even nuances to the most ordinary of voices.  I realized that with a lot of help from his new "friend" Jack could sound like his favorite singer.

While wearing a black dinner tuxedo Jack pivoted on the stool.  Once facing the crowd a single blue overhead spotlight beamed on his transformed head.  

The change was dramatic.  Curled silver locks replaced his thinning allotment of hair and two rosy cheeks, aviator-style sunglasses, and an enormous hooked nose completed the metamorphosis.

"Whoooweee . . . sex-y," Joanne shouted.

"And finally, little ol' me on guitar" I said

"Yeah, Uncle Jimmy rocks!" Kayla and Sammie shouted.

"Do we have any requests, out there?"
Danny asked and continued with, "Wait . . .How about 'A Horse With No Name'?"

Jack smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand and gasped, "Geez . . . why didn't I think of that?"

Stephanie began to lead the entire crowd in the chant, "Horse With No Name . . . A Horse With No Name . . . A Horse With No Name . . ."

My wife, Billie, who was situated in the Handicap Accessible section of the audience raised the bongos that she had on her lap and shouted "He doesn't know that one!"

Joanne heard and asked, "Is that true?  For years that song was the only one Jimmy knew?"

"I know.  But I guess after twenty years begging to play it, he gave up hope." Billie told her.

"Jack, Jack," Joanne shouted, " Tony!! Who ever you are, he doesn't know that anymore."

My brother turned to me and asked, "Is that true?"

I nodded.

"What do you know?" he asked.  Then added "but it such an easy song to play"

"I can pretty much handle Stairway to Heaven or most Beatle songs, some Dylan, and the first eight bars of "The Happy Birthday Song."

 "And???" Jack asked.

"That's it. Nada.  No more.  I told you everything.  There aren't any more songs I can play, kidd-o.  Besides you knew I was a work in progress." I answered.

"Oh boy, you really are a piece of work.  Gotta hand it to you there, Jim."

"Hey Dad" Danny spoke up.

"We have an entire set of songs, right there.  What's the problem?" 

"The problem is that I only memorized the words to "A Horse With No Name", that's the problem." Jack murmured.

Danny had begun to set up the small karaoke player which displayed song lyrics as his father was explaining that he didn't know any of the words to the  songs I could play.  

I turned my brother's attention to the little machine at his feet and in a barely audible tone, he said, "Never mind."

"Sorry for the brief interruption, ladies and gentlemen.  We had to address a minor technical problem." Danny announced. "So sit back and we hope you enjoy the show."

All the garage lights dimmed, except for the one single blue spotlight that haloed Jack's head then he began crooning with the aid of the vocal synthesizer, "I left my heart . . ."

Stephanie accompanied her dad by playing the gentle piano background while Danny and his girls added a soft and swaying beat to the tune.

". . .in San Fran-ciss-co . . " Jack stood and placed his free hand over his heart to intensify emphasis.  The band continued to play and the crowd cheered louder.

A white sheet unfurled, directly behind the band, from inside the top of the garage.  Jack tapped the "play" button on a carousel slide projector that rested near the vocal synthesiser at his feet.  The crowd reaction to the first slide of the Golden Gate Bridge was immediate and intense. The next slide, an orange and golden panorama of a sunset, proved to be just as effective as the last scene.

When the band finished the first song, it was greeted to the sound of a thrilled and surprised  audience. The applause was spontaneous.

However before the reaction subsided, I saw two police officers standing on the hood of their patrol car flashing their thumbs above their heads, while making the universal "okay" sign.  I later discovered a disgruntled neighbor called 911 to complain about the large crowd.
Instead of asking the growing crowd to disperse, one of the officers shouted for a request.

"Do you know any Zeppelin?"

Danny pointed a drumstick at me and said, "I believe that question was directed at you, Uncle Jimmy."

I answered by playing the first five notes of "Stairway to Heaven."

During that song, I saw the crowd extend past the patrol car.  Some younger kids were even standing on the hoods of the parked cars across the street. Indeed, it was our finest performance.  I had practiced for months and months alone on that piece.  To my ear, and mind you, I stress my ear the tune sounded great.  There were times, I confess, some of the high notes seemed unreachable.  Yet I was covered by Danny's supremacy of the drums. 

Helen, Joanne's mom, leaned closer to Billie after a short break and spoke.  Billie smiled and repeated what she heard to Joanne who in turn whispered in Jack's ear.

"It seems we have a request for a song that means a great deal to many of us here." Jack told the crowd.

He turned towards all the band members and shared the words his wife had just asked him.  His foot pressed on the fast forward arrow on the projector until he reached a series of old family photos mixed with several landscapes of  irish farmlands and meadows.  When he finished he nodded to Stephanie who turned a few switches and adjusted a dial on her Yamaha to "Bagpipes" and began to play the introduction of an old celtic classic.

The entire band leaned over the nearest microphone and sang "O Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling . . ." Almost immediately and without any cue the crowd added, "from glen to glen, and down the mountainside .  .  ."

Those who didn't know the words, swayed to and fro with their friends, family,  or strangers who were already singing, "the summer's gone and all the flowers are dying. . ."

My attention was  sidetracked.  I began to smell a feint burning and I thought it was my electric guitar so I walked to the amplifier and unplugged the wire.  I still smelled that something was burning.  I asked the rest of our band and none of them smelled anything at all.  I began to get a little nervous when the aroma intensified.  This time it smelled like, like . . .  hot dogs. Burning hot dogs, no wait, barbecue hot dogs.  

The singing of the crowd started to change to a loud gargling sound.  As the gargling got louder, I could detect specific voices.

"How anyone can sleep while Danny is playing with the rest of the band is beyond me.  And it's rude." Billie said.

"Oh, I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it.  He must be dead tired." Jack said

"No, I feel bad." Billie explained. "He should be awake for this.  After all, Danny got everyone together to play for his Uncle's seventieeth birthday."

Jack shrugged his shoulders and said to Billie, "Did I ever tell you about the time
I bumped into him on the F train?"

Billie shook her head and smiled.

"Well I was coming back from the city, I forget the reason I was there, but that's not important.  Anyhow, I saw Jimmy leaning against one of the doors.  Ya know the ones that say "Please do not lean on door", those doors.  He was sound asleep, so I stepped directly in front of him, toe to toe and waited for him to open his eyes and see me.  Well he didn't open them until it was our stop to get off the train.  I had to poke him to say, "Hey, aren't you gonna say "hello" to your brother."  Point is I know he sleeps like the dead and we are never offended when he drifts off to sleep."

"Look at what he's doing, Jack?" Billie pointed to my lips that were moving as I slept.

"He must be hungry"

"No, no, he's . . ." Billie hesitated before she said "Your bother is singing in his sleep."

I stilled smelled the aroma of barbecued hot dogs but the loud gurgling I heard had changed to laughter.  Loud laughter.

That wasn't the only change.  The  faces of the excited audience in front of me became hazy and transformed to a clearly jovial small cicle of friends and relatives.  Large thin cardboard signs that said "70" and "Celebrate" decorated the side of the swimming pool in front of me.  A salt and pepper haired Danny was playing his drums with his teenage daughters playing theirs, and the smell of a barbecued hot dog was on Billie's plate, who sat right next to me.  I blinked  twice and then I squeezed my eyelids shut once more before opening them and said to nobody in particular, "I'm sorry, was I sleeping?"

Billie, Jack, and Joanne smiled at me.  I saw the band in the garage and a spare acoustic guitar near an old Yamaha keyboard and I jumped from my chair to  say, "Now you gotta let me play "A Horse With No Name" before I forget it.

"Go get em tiger."

Both Kayla and Sammie shouted "Yeah!  Uncle Jimmy rocks!"

When I heard them I scratched my cap and thought only one thing, "Did this just happen?"

One particular New York Tuesday

I can still remember what happened on that day as if it had happened only yesterday. 
It was a Tuesday and people were streaming out of  neighborhood public school basements after casting their ballot for  local leaders on that election day.  I had voted much earlier that morning and was now walking down Sixth Avenue in New York City on my way to work.  It certainly didn't feel like autumn weather; most of the people that passed me on the street were wearing either shirt-sleeves or some other forms of light summery garb.  One might have been so bold as to say that that Tuesday was a weather forecaster's dream. 

As I approached Duane Reade drugstore, I felt a massive shadow pass over me but I paid no mind to it and entered the store.  A young man who seemed to be very distraught followed me and shouted to no one in particular, "I think a plane crashed into the World Trade Tower!!"

I turned on my heals and returned to the sidewalk outside to see that every ones attention was focused  downtown.  Initially, I thought it was only a  small plane embedded into the upper floors of the World Trade Center.  The morning rush to work had come to a standstill and huddled masses converged on street corners, while shoppers had ceased what they were doing  and formed smaller gatherings just outside the store where they were shopping.  I asked one of the sidewalk vendors what exactly had happened and they explained to me that the commercial airliner which passed overhead minutes ago, the one that narrowly missed hitting the Empire State building slammed head-on into one of the Twin Towers.

Before I continue I should tell you a little something about  New Yorkers .  If you live or work there, like myself, you can just skip ahead to the next paragraph because you don't need me to remind you that New Yorkers often appear hard-edged, and at times, almost unforgiving.  Of course not everyone in the city is like this, but there is certainly enough to label it as a tough place to live.  But if I were to hazard a guess as to why New Yorkers have this reputation, and mind you now, this is only a guess it would be due to the plain fact that this city that never sleeps is a relentless competitive town.  Living or working in such an aggressive environment day after day after day can form a hardened callous on even the kindest, most gentlest soul.  Yet, my friend, on that warm Tuesday at 8:46 in the morning millions of those same tough unbreakable New Yorkers broke down and wept like babies. Their home was falling apart.

I walked the last block with my eyes riveted to the dark gray plume that spewed out of a sickening spectacle at one of the twin towers. When I grabbed the metal handle on the front door to work  realizing I might be the bearer of this bad news, another national tragedy came to my mind.   Thirty-eight years ago that coming January,  I had announced to a class of twelve year-olds that their president was shot by a sniper's bullet.  I didn't relish the thought of telling my friends and co-workers that their city was attacked.  Instead, the fates were on my side this time - everyone had already heard about the tragic crash from their radios that were broadcasting the enfolding events.

A continuous train of firetrucks sped down a vacated sixth avenue  amidst the blaring noise of their emergency air horns.  As soon as each and every rescue vehicle passed, whether it was a fire engine, ambulance, or police patrol car, the throngs of New Yorkers greeted them with cheers and applause.  

After more employees arrived I heard the radio announce that a second commercial jet crashed into the other tower.  And minutes later we heard reports that another commercial airliner had veered off course and hit the Pentagon.   It was quite evident to most of us, the first crash was not an accident at all.

I couldn't think.  My entire body was numb. I walked out to the corner and gazed at the two colossal towers which had always seemed so impenetrable to me , finally buckle and collapse into a billowing pillow of smoke and ash.

The reaction of the crowd that surrounded me was immediate and intense.  Amidst a chorus of wails and screams,  Joey P., the owner of "Olympia Corner Deli" stood outside his store with both his hands clenched above his head and cried out, "NO . . .NO . . .no . . .noooo. . . "
One of Joey P's employees rushed to his side and tried to console their distressed boss.  The pain I saw in Joey's eyes reminded me of what he so proudly told all his customers last week ; his kid brother had just landed a  job as a trader in the tower we all saw collapse.

Louie, one of the nearby parking lot attendants threw his cell phone on the street in frustration and turned away moaning, "God damn it, WHY!!"

So many others were shouting with their own forms of despair and grief.  Some stood frozen with their mouths agape and others, like myself,  prayed for a miracle. When I retreated back to work I heard the radio inform me that my prayers were not answered; the remaining tower had fallen as well. 

What seemed to make matters even worse was that the mayor of New York at an emergency press conference, pleaded to all that they should remain where they were.  I thought "REMAIN WHERE I AM??  He must be crazy."

Later on I sort of understood that the reasoning behind this plea was to prevent wide spread panic.  But that request to remain where I am just made me feel like the proverbial fish in a barrel - trapped and poised as a sitting duck just waiting for the other shoe to drop.  If we wanted to escape we couldn't; all the bridges and tunnels  were closed and  many of the subways lines were suspended.
During this time that I was holed up at work, I asked some questions, probably the very same questions that confused and angered millions of other New Yorkers . . .

"How the heck, did this happen? 

"How could New York be so defenseless?" 

"What happens now??"

People didn't heed the advice of their mayor to remain at work; they left their places of employment in droves and headed to their homes by the only means available to them- walking.  Thousands upon thousands of scared citizens crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and were greeted by fellow New Yorkers who had set up refreshments for them on the other side.  

When I reached Penn Station and boarded the Long Island Rail Road for my trip home, the conductors said the train would not move until all cars had filled to capacity.  It wasn't until the train exited the station completely could I unclench my fists and breathe anything resembling a sigh of relief.  And I was quite certain that every passenger on that train were battling their own trauma from that day.  The elderly man  who sat motionless across from me still had fear soldered into his eyeballs.  After the train increased speed, I noticed that he had begun to scratch, quite nervously, the ash-covered briefcase which was on his lap. My eyes travelled from his suitcase back to his glassy gray eyes and I thought, "Oh my God, what did this poor man see today, what horrors did he witness?  Did those gray eyes see the helpless people who were trapped on the roof of the tower jump to their deaths?  Had those eyes seen the fear and helplessness of his co-workers as they ran from the crumpling building?
  
Muffled sobs from a woman who was pressing her forehead against one the cars windows grabbed my attention. She appeared as if she list her best friend and knowing what happened today, she just might have.  I thought if it were not for the balled-up handkerchief she was gnawing, those very same muffled sobs would have been uncontrollable wails of grief.  An older woman who sat beside her offered what little help she could muster for the grieving lady - her own kerchief.

When the train finally emerged from the tunnel and into daylight, we turned and saw rising from downtown Manhattan a plume of dark gray smoke the morbid reminder of where the World Trade Towers once stood.  

Traumas from the attacks befell not only on the passengers on the Long Island Railroad or on other eyewitnesses like Joey P. from "Olympia Deli" or Louie, the parking lot attendant but also on the survivors of the two attacks and most especially on all of their  families and loved ones.

It wasn't until after I had returned home did I fully comprehend the serious emotional effects this tragedy had on my wife, Billie.  I came to understand that there was so many other "Billies" out there who spent their day glued to the TV that day, and prayed that their loved ones returned to them safely from the burning city of New York.  And to make matters even worse a breakdown in cellular telephone service along with intermittent land line service helped increase their anxiety level substantially.

As time progressed it became obvious that more than New York's skyline had changed;  New Yorkers had changed as well.  Their renowned tough exterior was sanded down to a soft layer of kindness and gentleness.  Make no mistake, these attributes were always there but were seldom seen.  For days, then weeks, then months following the two attacks on New York, this noisy city was almost silent.  The irritating blast of car horns was replaced by the welcoming drone of fighter jets that patrolled the city far above.  The hordes of pedestrians that usually busied along the city sidewalks became smaller. Groups casually meandered through the intermittant photo tributes which memorialized the dead and missing from the attack on the World Trade Center the past Tuesday.

Besides the fact that New Yorkers were bonding together in a way they never had hoped a re-newed patriotism emerged in the hearts of their fellow Americans. A hurting country was united once again, but for how long was anybodys guess.  

Now every single time I cross Sixth Avenue, I can't help but turn my eyes toward downtown to see where the two towers once stood and remember.  I think of all those New Yorkers and heros who fell that Tuesday. I think of the bravery that was exhibited and  the countless acts of kindnesses to and by complete strangers.
So I think one more thing, dear friend.
That Tuesday, September 11th was my citys worst but also finest day.