Visiting the Flight 93 Memorial

We’d talked for years about visiting this site, because we know people with whom we can stay in Johnstown, PA. From there it’s less than an hour’s drive.

Unlike its sister memorials in New York City and Arlington, VA, the Flight 93 Memorial is in the countryside, insulated by distance from the sights and sounds of city life. Somerset County, PA, is largely farmland, with an overall population density of only 70 per square mile, compared to 557 for Burlington County, NJ, and 66,940 for Manhattan (Wikipedia data).

This tranquil setting was not the planners’ choice; it was where the airliner crashed—well short of its intended target, thanks to the heroic action of its passengers and crew. All of them, of course, were killed instantly by the impact, which also set fire to an adjacent hemlock grove.

A large boulder, visible from a distance but not accessible to visitors, marks the spot where the plane hit.

I was surprised at my gut reaction to this place. From the Visitor Center with its detailed description of each individual victim and the minute-by-minute timeline right up to the end; to the symbolic representation of the hemlocks engraved in walkway, wall, and window; to the alignment of overlook, Wall of Names, and boulder—hundreds of feet apart—all directly under the flight path; to the forty groves each with forty trees planted in honor of the forty victims; even to the coincidental view of a distant windfarm, whose turbines can conjure up images of airliners in the prepared mind; and by no means least, to the serene landscape in which one can meditate upon events still fresh in the minds of all who live in our community; I found the experience deeply moving.

The boulder
The boulder
Foreground: memorial grove trees
Foreground: memorial grove trees (1600 in all); distance: windfarm
View from the Visitor Center overlook
View from the Visitor Center overlook, directly under the flight path, through the Wall of Names to the boulder marking the impact site.

Visitors who do not want to drive all the way can take the Amtrak Pennsylvanian to Johnstown (a picturesque ride west of Harrisburg, including the famous Horseshoe Curve) and rent a car there.

MEMORY, LONG TERM AND SHORT

Whatever happened to that brash 13-year-old
     who shamelessly threw her arms around my neck
     and locked the gaze of her hazel eyes on mine?

Whatever happened to that 14-year-old in the Juliet cap,
     whom I sought so eagerly when the curtain parted
     at the end of the worship service?

Whatever happened to the girl whose cheek I kissed,
     leaning out the window in that precious last second
     before the train began to move
    — a kiss that would sustain me for months to come?

We were children, uprooted from parental home
     by persecution and war,
     deposited in a strange country where people spoke
     a strange language,
     and after five loveless years we had found each other.

But postwar reunion with parents, who had been denied
     bearing witness to their child’s flowering,
     was just as disruptive as the original parting.

Preoccupied with memories of suffering
     they had barely survived,
     they had little patience with my romantic awakening,
     did not rejoice with me, did not allow my adolescence
     to run its natural, happy course.

Fearful and suspicious, they maligned, blocked, warned,
     and thereby sullied our parent-child relationship.
     What a shame they didn’t simply let youth’s fancy
     bloom and wither of its own accord.

Seventy years later — years of maturity,
     settled with life partner, children, grandchildren —
     she vividly remembers that lush oasis
     in the desolate landscape of our childhood.

But the present eludes her.
     She forgets my answer
     to the question she asked just minutes ago,
     even forgets that she asked.

So she asks again,
     and asks again,
     and forgets both answer and question each time.

That’s what happened to her.
     She did not choose what to remember
     and what to forget;
     her illness mercifully chose for her.

Mercifully, because forgotten questions can be repeated,
     over and over until remembered,
     but forgotten memories of youth are lost forever.

    

WORDS FOR A SACRED PLACE

I look, I listen.
I feel an indefinable presence.
In the majestic woods, in whose embrace this sacred place is nestled,
I feel it,
though my eyes see only trees and the sky above.
In the ground on which we stand, so full of life and the remains of life deceased,
I feel it,
though my ears hear only the occasional birdcall and the random rustle of leaves.
I sense a hand beckoning and a voice softly saying,
“If you are moved by what you’ve felt here,
then, in your good time, come to me, add your voice to mine,
so that together we may afford the same experience to those you’ve left behind.”

Meditation Garden, a place for quiet and contemplation in the woods at Medford Leas, underwent extensive reconstruction in the summer of 2013. These lines were written for its dedication on November 7 of that year.

A MOST PRECIOUS GIFT

The love of a friend is unlike any other,
Unlike husband for wife, unlike sister for brother.

It does not compete, it does not displace,
But claims in your heart its select, reserved space.

It’s not rooted in task, in advancement, or duty,
It’s a bond, pure and simple, and there lies its beauty.

It is honest, sincere, has no need for disguise.
Its embrace is for all, the naïve and the wise.

It is food for the intellect, food for the soul,
It nurtures the spirit and renders it whole.

Should you be despondent or feel cast adrift
Think of a true friend and your spirits will lift

…Indeed,

The love of a friend is a most precious gift.