Recently I went through photographs of my two years in Europe, looking for something specific, when I noticed just how many photos I took of windows and doors. Something about them attracts me.
part of my blue & white collection
A co-worker asked me yesterday where I was on September 11th. I told her I was living in Montgomery, Alabama and in my second year of homeschooling Will and Caroline. He was a fourth grader, and she was in second. On that very mundane early fall morning, we were sitting at our dining room table with our books when my mom called and told me to turn on the television. And then I was on the phone with my sister as I watched the towers fall.
My little second grader drew her feelings that day:
A horrible day, wasn’t it? So much fear — was this just the beginning? Those people in New York City, Washington, DC, that field in Pennsylvania! Their families! All of those firemen! As a military family, what did it mean for our future? Who would do such a thing to our country? So many questions. Glued to the television.
Since that awful day, I’ve often heard it referred to as a tragedy. That makes me a little nuts. It is not simply a tragedy — something that just happened to happen to people. It was an act of war — acts of pre-meditated terror and evil inflicted on people like you and me. And then it was rejoiced over by other humans, twisted and dark and evil. Nope, not “just” a tragedy. It was evil.
Where were you?
I happened upon a New York Times piece on the Jewish Ghetto in Rome, and it reminded me of how much I loved that neighborhood when we lived in the Eternal City. Here are some pictures I took there:
If you visit Rome, don’t miss this neighborhood.