Today is the 25th Anniversary of 9/11 and I am struck by the millions of Americans who weren’t alive when it happened or are too young to remember, including my 8 grandchildren. It’s too important to forget, impossible for me and I was just a 55 year old widow in Tulsa, Oklahoma at the time with seemingly little direct connection. But, we all have stories and they are all a piece of the history and its lessons, so I will share my memories that I want my grandchildren to know.
In Oklahoma, we had already been through the Oklahoma City bombing where almost everyone knew someone who was impacted directly. We had experienced what an attack does to a city, state, nation. I remember standing before the wreckage with my husband, maybe a week later, looking at the damage that spread miles away to the high school my father had attended, looking at the teddy bears and messages hung on the fences surrounding the building. The city where I was born was showing the world how to take care of each other in a disaster. To this day, I still fear homegrown terrorists more than people from other cities with good reason. There are little camps of them throughout our country, filled with hate and anger.
By 2001, I was widowed and had five little grandsons. I had made changes and was now working at the American Red Cross, where I had once served on the Board of Directors. I was the representative in two counties outside of Tulsa, with offices in each. My three daughters were busy with their little ones, with my two youngest daughters ready to deliver babies within two months. My son, my youngest, was in Seattle having treatment for a rare cancer at the University of Washington Medical School.
On the morning of 9/11, I was in my office in Owasso, Oklahoma, a Tulsa suburb. I placed a call to Southwest Airlines to book a ticket to Seattle to bring my son home after his treatment ended. One still had to call the airlines way back then. When the agent at Southwest answered from the office in Dallas, she told me that an airplane had just crashed into the World Trade Center. My initial thought was that she was talking about the World Trade Center in Dallas, part of the market centers there. I pictured a private plane hitting a building I had been in many times. When she explained it was New York, I was confused. When I got off the phone, I tried to get on the computer, which was dial up access and slow. Of course, all access was extremely slow that morning as the whole world tried to log on. Then my Red Cross pager, which I had with me 24/7, beeped and I was told to come back to the home office in Tulsa. On the 15 minute drive, I listened on the radio, all the time watching an airliner coast to a landing in Tulsa with the backdrop of the BOK Tower in downtown Tulsa behind it. The BOK Tower is a replica of the Twin Towers, much smaller, of course. It was a surreal image with what I was hearing reported.
Arriving at the office, I found a television to watch what was happening. The towers hadn’t fallen yet and I was assigned to the Call Center, one of the Red Cross functions in any disaster. The American Red Cross works as a center where families can reach out to find out the status of relatives affected by a disaster. We were all trained in this function. The calls were coming in quickly to our office full of staff and volunteers. The best we could do was collect information so that they could be notified when anything was confirmed. We filled out a lot of forms that day. The call that will forever live in my heart was talking to a man whose brother worked on the 105th floor of one of the buildings and wanted to know if I thought he was ok. All I could do was try to be calm and hopeful and take the information. We watched the towers fall soon after that and I don’t know his brother’s fate.
The day of the disaster, a long time friend of mine’s older son was working as a non-military person at the Pentagon. Of course, she was scared, but he and others were led away from the building and a thoughtful officer made sure he could call his mother to let her know he was unharmed. A sigh of relief for all of us who have known him his whole life.
The American Red Cross is an organization mandated by the US Congress to assist in disasters, which means any disaster from a single home fire to a mass disaster. They are all the same to the person or persons involved. The Red Cross is also an organization comprised of highly trained staff and volunteers, with the volunteers outnumbering the staff. Because everyone must treat people affected by a disaster regardless of their religion, race, nationality, sexual preference, etc, we had a lot of diversity training. My good friend, Dannette, was the Director of Diversity in Tulsa at the time and wrote much of the curriculum used nationally then, including working with Native Americans, Hispanics, elderly communities and others. I learned so much from her. The attack happened on Tuesday and she was sent to New York on Saturday, one of the first people allowed in. She was stationed at Ground Zero for the next three weeks with the responsibility of going to apartments in the area to check on residents. One of our group of Red Cross friends called her every night so she could unload the enormity of what she was experiencing. She described the sounds, the smells, the dust, the people. It was crushing her inside, I think. When she returned, we greeted her with a welcome home party to give her hugs and hear the stories. In the following years, she developed health issues that were connected to those weeks in New York, but it took years to get her approved for government assistance. Yesterday was her birthday and she is in a memory unit, probably connected to her experience there.
Disasters don’t stop the day of the event. The consequences multiply and keep affecting everyone. I have a dear friend since junior high, Robert W. Jordan, who is an attorney in Dallas. He had done some work for George W. Bush, who remembered him and appointed him as Ambassador to Saudi Arabia on September 10, the day before the attack. Bob went at the worst possible time and I remember emailing him (no texts or other ways to reach him back then) to make sure he was safe. He later wrote a book about his years of service, “Desert Diplomat: Inside Saudi Arabia Following 9/11.” Talk about being thrown into a situation he had never expected. He’s still involved with leaders in Saudi Arabia and think tanks here working on peaceful solutions to world problems.
When the attacks happened, I was terrified for my son, who was in Seattle and hard to reach. Cell phones were new and long distance calls were expensive. We relied on email and calling cards to reach each other. He would go to a little computer cafe near his temporary apartment near the campus to check in. When the world realized it was a terrorist attack, nobody knew if there would be more attacks and he was in a coastal city. Everything was unknown then. I wasn’t even sure he knew about the attacks since he didn’t have a television where he was staying. I reached him and kept in touch until the time came for me to come move him back home since his treatments were over. The whole world had changed from the time I flew out there with him in late August. There were security checks at the airports which we had never had before. We took a cab to the airport and were stopped in a line before we got close for security checks. He had a lot of luggage, which wasn’t a big deal when he left, but he had purchased things and accumulated while he was there so we were dealing with bulky bags and things. It was much more complicated to travel immediately after 9/11 and hasn’t gotten much easier. We came home to my first granddaughter/his first niece, who had been born while we were gone. My sixth grandson was born the next month and my second granddaughter, my son’s child, was born eight years later in Seattle. None of my grandchildren is old enough to remember.
Following 9/11, the American Red Cross developed a curriculum for students in grades K-12 called Facing Fear. It was to teach students of all ages how to deal with events in the world. I was trained to teach this and took it to schools in our area, which I’ve written about in an earlier blog on this site, “Facing Fear,” which you can search so I won’t repeat myself. I don’t know if those lessons are still used, but it was a well thought out way to help students. I think it would be useful today, thinking about the lessons we used.
Another memory that popped up today was of my Red Cross friends and me working at one of the local television stations to take donations for victims of 9/11. We stood outside and people drove up to hand us money – and teddy bears. The generosity was incredible. People who didn’t have much themselves handed us the coins they found under the seats in their cars. We got small bills and large checks. One family brought a teddy bear so big that he took up the whole back seat. They wanted to help so badly, in any way they could. We had seen this before after the Oklahoma City bombing, when people gave teddy bears for the children, which was sad since the children had been killed. I assume they went to siblings or others, but I know there was a warehouse full of them in Oklahoma City. You can’t refuse people who want to help and I guess giving teddy bears is a way to send a hug or comfort. The people who had been so helpful in Oklahoma City traveled to New York City to give back with what they had learned from their experience and I think they shipped a lot of bears that direction, too.
Huge events such as 9/11 affect everyone in different ways. Even though my involvement was very remote, I’m sure it is similar to many who knew someone or were affected at work or lived in New York or the area. Everyone in America felt it and it was a time of massive patriotism. There were flags everywhere and gratitude for our leaders and protectors. We were one country united within the horror. I still remember being grateful that President George W. Bush took great care to ask the nation not to blame our Muslim neighbors for the deeds of a few. We took great pride in our country while we faced a world where we now knew we were vulnerable.
Those are my memories, which are such a tiny part of what happened. I suppose this is my version of “what were you doing during the…”. Like horrors that happened in other times, this one needs to be remembered so that we learn how to prevent, how to respond. There is no limit to man’s inhumanity to man as shown throughout history, but we must always hope that we can be better. We can at least read all the stories and find ways that we as individuals can treat others as we would like to be treated. It’s the only way we survive.
Sorry for the mirror image, but you get the drift and you would correctly assume from this that I was marching for women’s rights, the climate, and civil rights – all causes I’ve been working for most of my life. I wasn’t a marcher most of my years, but I’ve worked to better my community for all who live here in these areas and others.
I immediately made assumptions about her, based on my own prejudices. I saw someone who was proudly proclaiming that she was a Republican and would only vote Republican and there is no point trying to talk to her about anything. She is right (and probably never wrong) and proud of it. I watched her play with her child and thought how much that t-shirt had changed how I was reacting to her. All my own prejudices were on my nerve endings, an emotional and visceral reaction, which is pretty amazing since I spent most of my voting life as a Republican.
The family moved to Oklahoma City at some point, where my grandfather started his automotive parts business, J. C. Hamilton Co. Here is a photo of the family during that time. My father is on the front fender behind his brother, Ed. Bill stands on the running board between his sister and parents. It’s the only photo I can find of the whole family together, but you get the idea. 
Years passed, the children grew up and the boys went into the family business. Sarah married my other Uncle Ed and started their family. When the United States joined World War II, all the men went into service. Here is my Uncle Bill with my grandfather. 
My grandfather was about 5’8″, so Uncle Bill was the smallest of the brothers in the family, besides being the baby. I still don’t know where my father got his height of 6’2″.
And then this article from the local paper.
All I had ever heard was that he was shot down while parachuting into Germany and was buried there, far from home. Then I found this touching letter, written to my father. I’m not sure how this got into this group of papers, but it showed a big brother trying to find more information about his little brother, probably trying to get answers for my grandparents.
The letter shows they didn’t know right away if he was killed or captured, as this letter was written well over a month after he must have been killed, according to the newspaper clip above.
The words served all my teams well through the following years, both at the museum and at Oklahoma State University, where I did the same kind of work with college students.
The interesting thing about this mural is the extra display that shows all the drawings, plans, letters, and models that went into making a mural. It’s a very complicated process. Here is a clay model Benton used.
The Joplin City Hall is an interesting building to see and it was a nice stop along the way.
We sped towards Des Moines so we wouldn’t miss the first party of the weekend and were awed by the beautiful site for the event, the World Food Prize building. This was an old Beaux Arts library that was scheduled for demolition before wise Des Moines benefactors saved it and spent millions renovating it for the headquarters of this organization which gives an annual prize to the individual who has done the most to stop hunger in the world. It’s quite impressive!
The inside is stunning. My favorite part was the sculptures of different grains adorning columns in the Rotunda.
Every detail of the building was gorgeous.
I was getting more impressed with Iowa and the Iowans who planned this city. Here was a view from the second floor towards the Des Moines River that runs through the city. The state capitol is in the background, as is our hotel, peeking out from behind the hotel in front.
On Saturday, we were invited to brunch, so we walked across the river, along the river walk and into the incredible Farmer’s Market with over 300 booths along the way to the Des Moines City Government building at the end.
After shopping our way down the street, buying food, clothes, Amish woven ware, and other trinkets, we arrived at the historic Kirkwood Hotel with its wonderful Art Deco lobby. Here is the desk.
In the afternoon, we drove to the Capitol building, one of two in the country with five domes (the other is in Rhode Island). I had to admire the gumption of these Iowans who built this city in the middle of the country with such great aspirations.
I guess they are re-gilding the dome. We visited the monuments on the capitol grounds, including the Soldiers and Sailors Monument honoring Civil War heroes. It was very impressive with large sculptures all around honoring the men and women of Iowa. I’m standing by it for scale – it’s 135′ high.
One of the things my friend, Edie, and I both loved about Des Moines was the whimsical art everywhere we looked. It is a clean, vibrant, fun city with lots to do. There were unique shops, restaurants, bars and entertainment everywhere we were downtown. Paul McCartney was playing and there was a Broadway play, both within blocks of us Friday night. People were walking and having a wonderful time.
Our hosts captured the spirit of Iowa with a photo stop at the big party Saturday night. In fact, we drove by lush fields of corn from Oklahoma through Iowa. What a rich, abundant country we live in!
After the party, we spotted an outdoor concert on the river and stopped to watch. Phillip Phillips was playing to the paying crowd and the audience along the bridge.
Before leaving Iowa, we had to stop at some of the Bridges of Madison County, just south of Des Moines. We managed to see two of them and they were worth the visit. The first was the Holliwell Bridge, built in 1880, and the longest of the wooden bridges still standing.
The second bridge we visited was the much smaller Imes Bridge, built in 1870. It was a cutie and a good comparison with the other one.
Part of the fun was seeing all the graffiti left by visitors, which they must paint over periodically, just as they do the wall at Graceland.
We left the rolling hills and lush cornfields of Iowa, headed back to Tulsa.
I didn’t mention the beautiful fields of wildflowers that waved at us as we drove. I love this old gated road.
On the way north, we had seen the sign for Peculiar, Missouri, and felt we had to stop and explore this town on our way home. You can look up the origin of the name, but we had fun using it as we drove into town along Peculiar Way and Peculiar Road. Actually, the town has grown and has a lot of new homes. We saw the high school and stadium where the Peculiar Panthers play. I wanted to hear their cheers.
There were a few buildings left and a hint of civic pride and desire to bring back some of the history.
We were lucky enough to meet ReGina Edmondson, who has lived in Peculiar since her military father and her mother decided to settle there and raise eleven children. ReGina has lived there since she was three and owns the house, one of the early ones on the main street, where she was raised. She is a writer for the paper and is working to have a museum. She was a delight and a source of information we couldn’t find anywhere else.
She steered us around the corner to a Feed Store that is being refurbished for something historic and fun to see.
Such a fun little piece of America. One can only imagine the jokes they have to put up with.
We finished our tour of Peculiar, stopping at the local market to find a magnet, which we didn’t find (they’re missing a marketing opportunity). Edie captured this sign, which kind of summed up our trip. 
We started out as two old friends who kind of knew each other and discovered a mutual passion for photographing and exploring all the places along the way, catching up on 50 years as we drove. That wasn’t so peculiar, but it was a whole lot of fun!
You have a little girl who wanted to please and could empathize with people. A girl who graduated from high school in 1963, right as the world, our world at least, was about to be shaken to its core.
and set out early. In the usual chaos of my life, I also had a grandchild’s performance to watch in the afternoon so I would have to leave early. I wanted to be counted no matter what.
My kids had told me to be careful. I hadn’t forgotten that there are crazies out there and you can’t predict what will happen, but I wasn’t worried. Remember, I’m the 2nd tier kind of radical, the ones who wait for the revolution to be absorbed into the establishment to help with the changes. The rules were posted online and as I entered.
For those of you who have preconceived ideas about a march, I’m sharing some of my pictures and thoughts to help you understand what was happening. This was in the very so-called Red State of Oklahoma.
There were people of all ages, all races, and all economic levels. I looked around at women wearing expensive running shoes and outerwear mingling with others who obviously had other fashion statements to make. There were actually no social tiers at this march. We were all in this one together. There were the usual women’s rights signs and a few anti-Trump signs. Mostly, this was about being for issues and causes, being pro-active! This man was a veteran of protests and I watched a very stylishly dressed African American woman ask to take a picture with him and her young daughter.
Yes, it was a women’s march and there were lots of women and lots of pink pussy hats (which were just the kind of humor this serious issued needed)
The biggest surprise, although it shouldn’t have been, was how very many men were there. This man was registering voters.
There were men of all ages and they made up a very big part of the crowd. You saw generations and families. I think that was the most heartwarming thing I witnessed – all the men who understood why there was a march and why the women were there. They were so very supportive.
I ran into a friend and we spent a few minutes talking about how long it had been since we felt the need to protest like this. She commented that she had always been a Republican and I said I had too. We laughed at how we had left the party as it drifted and were now Independents. Who ever even knew an Independent? That shows something.
I was delighted by all the signs for so many issues but some of these said it best. We were all there for everything!
As with all of the marches across the country and around the world, the crowd was larger than anticipated but everyone was content to visit, take lots of photos and enjoy being with people who also cared. There was hope and joy in the air, to tell the truth. As the march was finally starting, I had to make my way to the car, but had to empathize with those of us who thought we had some of these issues solved.
When I got to the car, my phone had died so I reached for my big camera and watched a bit of the march go by me. It came in waves that washed over me. No loud noises, just people who cared and shared and came from all over the state to be heard. This one broke my heart and brought me back to the reality of this for many.
So several thousand Oklahomans who couldn’t make it to Washington D. C. came by car and bus on walkers and wheelchairs, carrying babies and pushing strollers and holding children by the hand. They carried homemade signs with messages that were powerful in their many diverse messages for so many concerns. They came to be with others and share something that became more powerful as word started spreading about the size of the crowds in Washington and the numbers of similar marches around the world. The sense of hope built and the strength was palpable.
