Post #104 – Women’s Memoirs, Writing Prompt – Kendra Bonnett and Matilda Butler
Time and Place in Memoir Writing
Time and place shape us and our life stories. We might reject those words thinking of other forces even more important such as our parents or childhood experiences. Then we remember a time and place that is etched in our memories forever, and realize how we have changed because of it. Some times and places are personal. But today, on 9-11, I want to focus on a public time and place that we’ll never forget.
For many of us, the assassination of John F. Kennedy presented that crossroad of time and place that changed us in someway. Perhaps at the time, it seemed as if it didn’t. Yet we always remember exactly where we were when we learned the news. When we reflect on that time, we realize the ways in which that event changed us — perhaps small or perhaps big — but definitely changed us.
Ten years ago today, September 11, 2001, our private worlds changed again by the attacks on America — the Twin Towers with their twin plane crashes that were responsible for massive deaths and that brought the buildings down within a short two-hour period, the Pentagon with the devastating crash that caused loss of life and injury to many as well as building damage, and the fourth plane destined for Congress or the White House, brought down in a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania by its passengers in order to avoid a fourth serious attack. Where we were when we heard the news will never be forgotten. Kendra and I thought we’d share our personal short version of that day and the days that followed. I say short version because like all significant times in our lives, we could give you many more details.
Here’s my story — my memoir vignette:
I had been in Oklahoma City for a week, visiting my mother, and had a ticket to fly on United Airlines back to California on 9-11-2001. I told my mother that we’d have the morning together to do errands that had not been completed during the week. She had a pillow that she wanted reupholstered and suggested we stop by a neighbor’s home on the way. As was my habit, I had brought my homemade Meyer Lemon Marmalade and always let mother choose who I’d share it with. We were out early since later I’d be on my way to the airport. It was around 8:30 am when we pulled up at the Blakley’s. I rang the doorbell and was quite surprised when the husband came to the door — dressed but wearing socks without shoes. I thought he would have been at work. Odd. I handed him the marmalade — chatted for a moment and then got back in the car. He seemed distressed and said, “It’s just awful.” I didn’t know what he meant and started to just agree. Instead I asked him what he meant. He told us that two planes had flown into the Twin Towers in New York City and that it was on television. I learned later that the second tower probably came down while we were talking.
In what became our last effort to have a normal day, we drove on to the upholstery shop. There we saw what become iconic images playing on an old black and white television set. Even though it was early in California, I immediately called my partner to let him know. He and our son had plane tickets to New York City for the following day — along with baseball and hockey tickets.
“Do you think it is safe to fly there?” I asked.
“Oh sure. We might even walk over to that area.”
“I’d rather you not. I just don’t feel good about it.”
Of course, at that time, we didn’t even know that I couldn’t even fly out of Oklahoma City and that my partner and son couldn’t board their plane to NYC. For days, I sat with my mother at the glass top table in her kitchen, watching the same scenes over and over. Finally, I turned off the television and told mother that we had to do something else. We were getting more and more depressed.
Meanwhile, I had United’s 800 number seared in my brain and my finger I called it over and over and over and over. Usually, the number was busy. Sometimes, I was lucky and got through only to be put on hold. A couple of times, I actually talked to someone who told me that they had no idea when planes would fly out of Oklahoma City to California.
I needed to be on the move. I wanted to be home. So, in desperation, I purchased a ticket on the 10 pm bus out of Oklahoma City with passage to Gilroy, California. My sister took me to the bus station in the afternoon so that I could pick up the ticket. Then that evening she dropped me off. I’m an airplane person and so wasn’t prepared for what followed. I checked my bag and sat down to wait. The lobby area was filled with a mixture of folks who usually travel via bus and those who travel via plane. We chatted, sharing stories. Some people had started their journeys home from other cities, already tired from long days and even longer nights on a bus.
Eventually, there came the announcement that our bus had arrived. Most of us got up in a relaxed way and walked out to the long line. The line didn’t seem to move, but that wasn’t a concern since I had my ticket in hand for that specific bus. The luggage got loaded and then we were told that there was only room for the first four people in the line and that everyone else had to go back inside.
“But I have a ticket.”
“My bag is on that bus.”
It seems that Greyhound sells tickets (this may have changed by now) for the outgoing leg but doesn’t know how many people will be on the bus when it arrives. “My” bus pulled out with my bag (we weren’t allowed to take our luggage off) but without me. The next logical bus wouldn’t arrive until the following morning. By then I was ready to just get out of Dodge and start my way home. I got a seat on a bus that was going north and I knew I could eventually make my way west. I was willing to get on any bus as long as it wasn’t headed east. It took me several days with stops at more towns than I can now remember. But I made it. My luggage, of course, made it before I did and was waiting in Gilroy.
While I may no longer remember the names of the towns I passed by, I will always remember the stories of the people I talked with and the sights along the route. For example, one man, a physician from Australia, had been at an international conference in Denver. “The smart people went out and bought a new car and drove to Los Angeles,” he said. “Of course, the rental cars went first and a new car was the secondary strategy. I thought I’d just catch a bus. I had no idea it would take me so long to get to LA.” International flights were the first to be resumed and he knew if he could get to LA, he could fly back home. “But what will they do with the cars they bought?” “Oh, they’ll just take them into a dealer and sell them,” he answered.
Perhaps the sights along the route will stay with me even longer than the stories. In every small town, people stood on street corners and waved the American flag. The bus driver always honked a recognition of their efforts. Often someone would shout, “God Bless America.” Occasionally, we’d hear a a few words as a a small group sang American the Beautiful. Paper flags suddenly appears on stakes in the front lawns of homes we passed by. Everyone seems to want to show their love for America. It was quite a sight, or perhaps I should say series of sights, to behold.
It was good to finally reach home.
Here’s Kendra’s story – her memoir vignette:
Matilda told such a long story that I’ll keep mine brief.
I was in The Little House, a house on my parents’ property in Connecticut that overlooked the water. I knew the sounds of the area well as I had grown up on this land. I knew when a sound was “off.”
The morning of September 11, 2001, I was working on a new business project, already at my desk. I heard a plane in the distance and from the sounds of the engines could tell it was a large plane flying low, too low. Planes didn’t fly over that area so any plane was a surprise, but one flying low was definitely “off.” I looked out, thought it odd, but then went back to work.
Later, when I heard on the news about the two planes crashing into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, I realized that one of them had passed near me. That had been a moment when passengers were alive who were soon dead.
I’ll never forget the sound of that plane.
Memoir Writing Prompt
1. Today, write for 10 minutes about where you were, what you were doing, on 9/11. You may find that one memory will bring out other memories — people, place, perhaps even food, phone calls, emotions. Write out your story.
You may find that you will want to expand on your brief vignette and share it with others in your family. I already have young grandchildren born after 9-11 who will learn about that day in the history books or on the Internet or on television or from me. But they will have no direct experience with the emotions of the day. To them, it will simply be history.
Share your personal history with family.
