Like most Americans, I remember where I was on September 11, 2001. I remember the drive to work, the clear blue skies, and the order of things. I had just finished facilitating a conference call and one of the participants casually mentioned a plane had hit the World Trade Center. Her name was Diana; she said “it was probably just a prop plane.”
Earlier in 2001, before September, I had become a “provisional” member of the Junior League of Boston. In retrospect, it was a strange intersection of people, places, and things for me.
Sometimes, it seems like none of it ever happened.
Late last week, humidity moved in and made it seem quite warm. A fog settled over this part of Maine on Saturday night; Handy and I noticed it on our drive home from Rockland. We stopped at Moody’s Diner and shared a piece of pie like it was 1949.
The fog and damp hung on through the night and during church on Sunday, the sky grew dark. After the congregation finished the old Protestant classic “A Mighty Fortress is Our God,” sounding as powerful as it must have sounded almost 500 years ago, it began to rain.
It rained steadily until noon, but by 3:00 p.m., the sky had cleared and the humidity’s oppression vanished. It was good weather for moonflowers and morning glories and deep red tomatoes on the vine.
That was the order of things fifteen years later.