September 11, 2001. An email from Jorja alerted me to the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. I turned on TV and watched in horror, with a heating pad against my right side.
Shingles.
The doctor didn’t change his mind when I informed him that I wasn’t old enough for shingles. I endured the misery nevertheless.
My husband Guy was an air traffic controller at the Des Moines tower. He covered his shift, even though airports were closed across the nation. The control towers were manned, just in case.
That afternoon I stepped out on the front porch. Our suburban neighborhood was eerily still. Even freeway traffic was faint on that Tuesday, and there was no aircraft at all.
I noticed one large plane to the north headed east. Later I learned it was Air Force One, with the president on his way from U.S. Strategic Command at Offutt Air Force Base (STRATCOM) in Omaha, Nebraska, to Washington, DC, to address the nation.
It was such an uncertain time, nationally and personally.
