From The People Sentinel, Sept. 19, 2001 edition
People were starting to turn away from their television sets on Saturday.
Four days of being bombarded wih image after image began to be too much.
So maybe they missed the first of many, many funerals we will be watching in the months to come.
A funeral mass was held for Father Mychal Judge, a Franciscan priest, chaplain to the New York City Fire Department. The New York City Police Department’s Emerald Society, a band of bagpipers, played. They played the easily recognized Amazing Grace. They played other pipe tunes.
As they brought his casket in to the church, however, they played a particular tune, an Irish tune. It wasn’t religious, which one might play for a priest.
He was Irish, and it was Irish.
I was talking to a friend about it. He said his sister-in-law and her husband were OK. He did it to stop me, because I forgot, and so forgot to ask. They live in Washington D.C. and work in government.
I had been focusing on New York, of course.
But again, the attack is so far-reaching. I don’t know why I always make these things personal. But this is personal.
Those that did this evil not only jarred my present. They have stolen something magical from my past, and robbed a bit of my future.
I was a Boy Scout, and my brother was still a Cub Scout. The pack rented a bus and drove downtown. We went to the World Trade Center, went up to the observation deck, went up to roof, which has an observation tower. We touched the clouds.
We went to a fire station downtown as well. An old one, I believe it was fire company 10, a hook and ladder company. It was an old station kept in active service. There I learned for the first time the real hazard of firemen, and learned what firemen do when they hit a place on fire.
Head to the top. The sooner they get to the top, they can open up the roof to get in as much water as possible. Running through flames, they head to the top.
We went to the Statue of Liberty as well. We also went up to 27th and Lexington Avenue, to the National Guard Armory. It is the armory of a storied regiment, an Irish regiment, the Fighting 69th. The 69th fought in the Civil War, fought in World War I. My father,when he was in the National Guard, was in the unit before transferring to the Air Force.
They didn’t sing it, just played it slowly on the pipes. But I know the tune, I have the words.
It is a song of courage and defiance called the Minstrel Boy.
I don’t think I have yet really dealt with the attack on the United States, and particularly the destruction of the World Trade Center.
The attack is so far reaching. We still are just guessing how many people have been killed and injured in both places. But the attack hit the fabric of our lives in other ways. Sports games were cancelled, but thankfully, our local boys played on, giving some a break from horror.
Sooner or later, you will probably find someone you know who was there, near there, or someone you know knows someone. It will hit you.
Yesterday, I got through to my cousin Jimmy’s wife Molly. They had no business being anywhere near the World Trade Center and weren’t. But people kept asking. Jimmy works in Midtown Manhattan, so he shouldn’t get that far downtown. Until yesterday, who knew?
The little fire house was in the shadow of the World Trade Center. It is not shadowed any more. The armory has become a center for people to come to get information about those lost and those fallen and those still missing.
The Twin Towers are gone.
I’m at a point now when I don’t think I will ever move back to New York City, but you never know. I always planned to return, someday, with any kids I may be lucky enough to have, to recreate for them the wonderful day I had when I was young and the world was safer.
That trip is on hold until they restore the towers, which I hope they do, only higher.
All this, and more, I was thinking as I watched the funeral mass for Fr. Judge, as I heard the pipes play and ran through my mind the words to a song of courage and defiance.
“The Minstrel Boy to the war has gone in the ranks of death you will find him. His father’s sword he has girded on and his wild harp slung behind him. Land of song, said the warrior bard, though all the world betray thee – one sword at least thy rights shall guard one faithful harp shall praise thee."The Minstel fell but the foeman’s chain could not bring his proud soul under. The harp he loved ne’er spoke again for he tore its chords asunder and said “No chains shall sully thee, thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, they shall never sound in slavery!”
I have no shortage of defiance. I’m looking for courage.
No comments:
Post a Comment