Where Were You on 9/11?

Five years ago I wasn't a grandmother - I was a newly enrolled college student and mother of a soldier. My son, Ricky, was a member of the 82nd Airborne. It had always been his goal to be a part of the military and well, getting paid to jump out of airplanes and blow things up is every boy's dream come true. Me? Not so much - but I support him.

Ricky had joined the military in a time a relative peace in the world. But five years ago, as I huddled around a computer screen with my classmates, I knew the implications and I dreaded them. The sight of those planes crashing into the World Trade Center brought a chill to my bones and made my heart skip a beat. After the Rangers, Airborne were first in. My son was going to be a floating target.

As I mentioned once before, Ricky didn't go overseas. A jump accident prevented him from going and the frustration in his voice was not pleasant to hear. All his buddies were there while he stayed on the base and fueled aircraft. He had joined the Army to support our country and instead he was stuck in the barracks, unable to do what he had trained to do.

And now for my confession: I was glad and ashamed of it. I had come from a military family, I had uncles who fought in Vietnam and a father who had served on a ship during the Korean War - I had a grandfather who had lived through two World Wars and had tried to enlist both times(too young to enlist in the first, too old in the second). I, myself, had served in the Navy until it became apparent that a birth defect in my knees would not allow me to stay and serve my country. What kind of coward was I?

The worst kind I'm afraid - a mother protecting her son. Not so much a coward but the nurturing part of me won out over the patriotic side. And it made me ashamed to call myself an American. Me, who develops tears at the singing of the Star-Spangled Banner and who proudly led and said the Pledge of Allegiance all through grammar school, high school and college. I suddenly felt like Peter, who, when it came time to stand up for Christ, denied him, not once but three times.

Having my son get hurt while jumping from an airplane seemed to be my worst nightmare - yet it was that incident that kept him at home. I am still ashamed of my reaction to the fact that he remained at home but I know my son - as a Christian - he takes the "lay down my life for my brother" seriously and his natural instinct would have been to step into the line of fire to save another. Ricky knew he was ready to meet his Maker and he would have done so with open arms.

During the years after 9/11, a flag hung on the front of our house 24 hours a day, properly lit of course, as a reminder that we had a son who was serving our country in whatever capacity and who was dearly missed at home. On the day he returned, we took down the flag, folded it properly and presented it to him.

As you know, Ricky met and married Glynda and together they have a beautiful son, Brandon. There are times when I look at my grandson and wonder if he too will follow in his father's footsteps. As I hold him close I know that whatever comes, he will be ready, as his father, his Granny, his great grandfather and great-great grandfather were.

Where was I on 9/11? I was at school in Enid, Oklahoma - but my heart was in New York and at Fort Bragg.