Shanksville

With Fort Pitt and the craziness of Pittsburgh tunnels and bridges behind us, we moved out to where we would spend the night. It was the clearly more modern, but powerful, location of Shanksville Pennsylvania.

It was nearly twelve years when with small rural community of farms and fields when this small community was thrust into the national spot light. On the date this would happen 44 people boarded a flight in Newark, NJ, which was headed for San Francisco, CA. No one that morning knew the heroism which they would be called to exhibit, the heroism which would be associated with the plain name "Flight 93". Among the people on the flight were seven crew and 33 passengers. In these 33 people were people from China and Germany, mostly middle aged professionals. Lastly, there were the four terrorist who, at about 45 minutes into the flight over powered the crew, claiming one of them was wearing a bomb, took over the flight and moved everybody to the back of the plane.

From the back of the plane people started calling their friends and family, where they learned what had happened in New York, that terrorists had flown planes into the Twin Towers. They could not be glued to their TVs the way we were. They suddenly were part of something bigger, caught in a mass attack against the United States. Ominously, this plane had been turned back toward the East Coast. They didn't know it, but it was flying toward the Capitol, where the House and Senate were in session. They took a vote and decided to take the plane back, to fight. The last words heard by an operator on one of the phone were said by Todd Beamer. Let's Roll.

We drove from the school we would be spending the night in, to the Flight 93 memorial. We were upbeat on the way there, but once there it was much more solemn. There was a long path which bordered the debris field. Every once in a while was an alcove for people to leave mementos, patches, coins and flowers. They homered the unlikely heroes. At the end of this path a large carved stone had been erected for each of the passengers and crew. We took our time. Prayed. Tried to draw in the enormity of the spirit there,

For a moment, we were all individuals. When we turned to move back toward the cars, we saw the rangers doing the activities they do to close up the park. I could see the flag being brought down, but the ranger wasn't doing it alone. The Fife and Drum Corp, who were not in uniform, were not there to perform, were participating in the flag ceremony. They folded it and presented it. There was no goofing off, or looking for a photo, it was connection to something which these kids had been caught in the shadow of, but they don't really remember a time before Al Queda, before Bin Laden, before the War on Terror.

We reunited and returned to the school for dinner and games. We didn't talk much about the events of September 11th, but it was there. In some small way we were drawn closer together by sharing this rememberance.

Fort Pitt

From 1759 to 1761, on the crook of land where the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers come together and the Ohio river begins, Fort Pitt was constructed. This was during the French and Indian War and the site, because of the rivers there, was strategically very important. This fort replaced a fort the French had destroyed the previous year. During the American Revolutionary War, this was the American headquarters for the western theater of the war. Interestingly, Fort Detroit was the British counter to this fort.

This was our destination on day one. We had started driving at that time of the day when the sun is not yet up, so no one really cares what time it is. We had started the routine of pee and fleas, which make all drive times warp to this new thing called Corps time. Our car was quiet, with the brakes in rhythmic breathing of the sleeping kids only broken by the next instructions being given over the CB. It was good.

Our final leg of the journey was not quite as smooth. As we got into Pittsburgh and the instructions of where to go got stacked up and the caravan got stretched up by traffic lights, we missed our turn. A turn that meant rather then making it to the target parking lot we crossed a bridge and then immediately into the Fort Pitt tunnel. This means we could only hear the people who had gotten lost in the same way we did. This is not ideal. No reason to panic, so what is half the bass drummers were in our car. Shelly pulled up the address on the iPhone and we got turned around, us and our mini caravan of fellow lost folks. Back through the tunnel, back across the bridge and an exit which didn't mention the fort which was supposed to be there. We slowed and there he was. Steve, the husband of the President and a veteran parent, had walked to the difficult corner and was pointing the direction we needed to go. Exactly what we needed, we made it back in plenty of time.

The kids dressed in the back room of the museum. This would be there first performance of what was being called the Liberty Tour. While they finished getting their things and started warming up, the parents and the instructors went out to the park we would be playing in. It was a vast green that had a wall marking the foundation where that portion of the fort was no longer there. It was, as we would learn, the portion of the fort where musical instructions would be given to the troops.

It was then, from the shade of the bridge, which allowed us to be close to the exit from the museum and the green they would play on, but not roast in the heat, we heard the first drum beats. We looked over to a small copse of trees and through the crowd which had gathered we could see the distinctive uniforms of George Washington's Lifeguard, the uniforms adopted by the Plymouth Fife and drum corps. The crowd shifted toward them. We told people this was just the warm up, that they would be playing on the green they were leaving, but those beats were like a siren's call. Soon, the fife and drums and guardsmen each had little crowds of people. News stations showed up and cameras were positioned, bikers and walkers stopped and listened.

Then they gathered. They heard the commands we could not, they lined up and marched. A ship of red, white and blue which dragged behind it a wake of people. Looked for Savannah and Sienna, my reasons for being there and joined the wake allowing myself to be carried to the edge of the green.

There was probably 200 to 250 people, dozens of cameras and thick solemn attention. I swelled with pride at not just my kids but the whole corps, with the parents and support. I looked at the people who watched them and wondered if they felt the history come alive as they played the songs which had been played, in uniforms which had been worn on the spot those they were emulating had once stood. This was why we were here. Tour had begun.

One does not simply get prepared

The other night we had dinner at church and my parents, as they normally do, sat at the same table. They did half a dozen tours as I was growing up, because my brother, like Savannah, was in the color guard. In those days, I was not enamored with the Corps, it was something my younger brother did. Anyway, with this experience, plus the fact that we are leaving on Sunday at 5:30 AM, lead my Mom to ask if we were ready? We're we prepared?

Our stuff? Physically? Emotionally? What in the world is that question supposed to mean?

In short, the answer has to be no. I don't think you can be any more prepared for tour than you can be be prepared for a tidal wave. The people at work, the acquaintance who know I will be gone, think this is a vacation. This is not a vacation. I will not be returning well rested.

For ten days, starting at "who in their right mind would be up":30 on Sunday, I will be driving three random middle school or high school kids from city to city and state to state. If we have drummers, they will likely beat the inside of the car to pieces. If we have boys their will be piles of trash filling the floor. If we have middle school girls... so much giggling.

Now we do get to go to some cool places. Fort Pitt, Philadelphia, the Deep River Muster. Places that the Corp has been invited to perform, which is exciting and make me proud. This, though, becomes a continuing cycle of practicing, dressing, scouting, performing and getting out of uniform. We, all the parents, end up being a support staff, which is fun, but is constant work.

This produces long day, days that leave you ready to collapse by their end. It is a good thing we are so tired, too, because the sleeping accommodations are not what you might be expecting. They are not what anyone expects. At this location, we find the most affordable housing possible, which is almost always a school, or YMCA, or military hanger. Any big, open, reasonable temperate place will do. We sleep all together in one giant room. Boys on one side, girls on the other and the parents ringing the walls. Air mattresses and cots fill the space. There is always snoring, hot, cold, doors swinging open, early risers. You need to have a kind of sleep fortitude. There is no Holiday Inn.

How do you get prepared for that?

Last year, I remember getting home with two distinct, but powerful feelings. First, I was so tired that I lounged at the couch not even being able to focus on TV and thought, I might have broken myself. Brain cooked. Second, I remember how proud I was not just of Savannah, but of the whole Corps, the kids at the parents. We had done something really special.

So, no, I am not prepared, but when the wave washes over me, I will lift my feet, stretch my arms out and let it take me. I know when the current releases the grasp it will have on me, I will be tired and standing in a new, better place.

The Pious Few: into Weston

Dear Mary,

I was thankful to the One True God to take the second watch tonight, not because I wanted my sleep interrupted, but because I would have a few moments alone to write. With every dip of this quill into the ink, I look up imagining you will be across from me. Even though you are not there, just the act makes me feel closer. Just before I started this, I could almost smell the rosé water you used to use.

I imagine you want to find out what happened to the boy and it seems he has become an important part of this assignment.

I carried him what seemed a long ways, although my men seemed to be pleased with how close Weston had been. By the time we saw the gates, my arms had frozen in the same way a farmer's hand will sometime be stuck to the plow. It was if my body was prepared to always carrying the weight of him and any adjustment to the contrary hurt from the knuckles of my hands to my shoulders. I could imagine having to sleep on my back so my hands could be trust in the air, holding the ghost of him.

As you might imagine, I was incredibly happy to see the rough wall and the gate we would enter through and the men who stood watch seemed happy to have peacekeepers entering there. It could not have gone any smoother. I admit I was a little concerned we would not be so welcomed, being in the wild and all, but they were downright civilized. Additionally, they gave me quick directions to the church.

I carried the boy to the church knowing Father Domenus was my contact, but also knowing he might be able to assist the boy. I stopped before I stepped in, when I realized the boy had not stirred in my arms in quite a while. I was concerned he might have.., he hadn't. His breathing was as light as can be imagined and he was stone still, but he lived.

In the church, I lay the boy in the first pew I spotted, trying not to jostle him anymore than I had to. The motions to transfer him caused my arms to ache, but with the weight gone, I could begin regaining their use. As I tried to rub the pain out, I spotted two individuals at the front of the sanctuary. The first was a tall, thin, elderly man, who reminded me strongly of my grandfather. The good one. He wore glasses and smiled and talked with his hands. His teeth seemed to radiate from his tan skin and there was no aggression in this man at all. He was talking to what I guessed was an alter boy. A teen, who also looked friendly and maybe a little serious. Perhaps he was trying to impress the Father.

I assumed, wrongly, that this was Father Domenus, but upon introducing myself he made it clear he was Father Gonsalvas and the body he was training was Tobias, He then told Father Domenus was in his office and he pointed the way. I explained briefly about the boy and Winn and I headed into the office.

Father Domenus was nice enough, explained where we could spend the night, said he would have Father Gonsalvas take the boy to the children's hospital and then, almost bashfully, said the Father Gonsalvas was the reason we were there. He had called in on his fellow priest. He liked the man, said he did good work, but his "miracles" were splitting Weston. He had even gathered a bit of a cult following. Mary, I have to tell you, I understand why. I had only met the man a few minutes and, while it might be because of how he looks like my grandfather, I wanted to hug him.

We moved to the doorway of the office and looked back out across the church. Father Gonsalvas and Tobias stood by the pew where I had laid the boy. The rest of my men stood away. While they were getting instruction to take the boy to the hospital, I noticed their body language was wrong. They weren't looking at the unconscious boy in the pew. When they turned to Father Domenus's voice, I would see why. Tobias had the boy by the hand and the angle had made it so I couldn't see him standing there until they shifted positions. There he was, alert, maybe even active, and talking.

As the three of them walked out, I tried to fix in my mind what I had just seen and I realized I was still rubbing my arms and shoulders trying to get the stiffness out. I've never been good at letting go.

Your loving Husband,

Piermont

Exotic

I remember looking at this strange thing, about the size of a plum, or a small hamster on the counter. My mother had brought it home from the grocery store for us to try. We didn't know what it was, but we watched intently. It was brown, with short hairs all over it. It had a nub on one end, like you see on an orange. If anything, before the knife cut through the surface, it was dull looking.

The blade of the white handled knife cut, after just a little tension, through the thin furry skin. I could imagine it bleeding drops of dark blood, but it didn't, it was quite the opposite, The inside was a vibrant green, darker toward the skin, and becoming almost white near the center. In the somewhat jelly like flesh of the fruit, tiny black seeds were suspended. It was an inside out green strawberry, fruit. Wide eyed, I wanted to try it.

I did learn it was called a kiwi and that the skin, while edible, was not very good to eat. This new, sweet, tart, strange fruit instantly became one of my favorites. To my mouth, at the time, it was not just good, but rare.

This wasn't the last time as a kid I was introduced to something which, at the time had increased value because it seemed rare. A couple years later, I had expressed my dislike for cheese. Weird, right? I have since outgrown this strangeness, but I do recall the conversation. My mom, probably recognizing how strange this was, took me somewhere, a shop in Plymouth, where I could try different cheeses and see which, if any of them, I would like. I don't remember exactly why, but I think the idea was for me to have something I like.

Anyway, I tried little bits of Swiss and cheddar, and mozzarella. There were smoked cheeses and cheeses with red wax rinds. There was this one, though, which looked like it was made of stone. It was kind of a dirty white color. It crumbled when you tried to get a piece, it had little veins of a dark color through it. When it was passed over the counter, I could smell it had a tang to it. It was salty and crumbly, not creamy and not like any cheese I had had before, ever. It was, as you might have guessed, blue cheese. It has been my favorite since then. Since it was an alien flavor.

It has been a long time since kiwis or blue cheese have been exotic discoveries, new favorites, but there is a part of me still looking for that rush of the new. Experience, though, is the enemy of the exotic. It is not exotic anymore to try liver or squirrel, escargot or ostrich. Kiwis were the gateway fruit to mangos and pomegranates, plantains and dragon fruit. The pool of things which seem exotic, that pool of the new, is shrinking.

So, close your eyes and think back, what were your exotic discoveries? What is the exotic thing you are looking for next?