This article was originally published on the College Park Patch as part of the weekly column by Gretchen Schock, Parenting on a Tightrope.
Ten years ago, Sept. 11, 2001, I didn’t have children; I was living in New York City managing an Off-Broadway Theatre.
It was my day off, and I was sleeping in.
I woke up to the sound of my best friend’s voice leaving a message on
my answering machine: “An airplane flew into one of the twin towers.
Gretchen, WAKE UP!”
I sprang out of bed not knowing if I was awake or if this was a
dream. I remember the sound of my bare feet hitting the hardwood floor
as I ran to my fire escape, where I had a clear view of the twin towers.
All I could see was smoke.
I grabbed my camera — the only thing I owned that would give me the
ability to zoom in and really see what was happening. I poised the
camera to my face and looked into the viewfinder. My finger
automatically went to the shutter button, and I pressed my finger as
another airplane flew directly into the second tower.
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