I Hear America Calling: Remembering 9/11

             I Hear America Calling

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;

When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day;

One look I but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a look I shall never forget,

One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground.                                                                                       Walt Whitman

Friday night we gathered at the football field to cheer for the players victorious. The band played and the cheerleaders cheered. The poms danced in the clear night air. This was done throughout the area at different stadiums as it has been for years. Somehow it was different, though.

Sunday we gathered in solemn remembrance of those who will no longer cheer on this earth. We prayed in the stands where prayer is not usually public. We wept and God seemed to weep with us as the rain fell lightly at the end of the ceremony. A friend commented that she "really needed this" referring to this public mourning time. The words were comforting. A time for the community to start the healing process. Different faiths, different races, different ideologies. All Americans.

The images still linger. The crashes, the burning of buildings, the terror. The images of those falling or jumping out of the buildings. Flying to a death most certain when nothing else seemed certain. The pictures that haunt us. The sounds of the phone calls, as if calling from the grave, to tell family members that they are loved.

Father Judge killed as he administered last rights to a dying firefighter. Angela Houtz, 27, doing her work at the Pentagon. The heroes of United Flight 93, like Todd Beamer who yelled "Let's roll" before attempting with at least two others to overtake the hijackers and crashing into rural Pennsylvania. Todd will not have the chance to see his third child who is expected in January. How do you tell your children that their mommy or daddy will not be coming home anymore?

Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity,

some of them dead,

Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether,

the odor of blood,

The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms, the yard outside,

also fill'd,

Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in

the death-spasm sweating,

An occasional scream or cry, ...      Walt Whitman

We saw it happen and we couldn't look away. Glued to the gore that was being shown. Shown repeatedly. How many times did the jets hit the towers? The inferno was like watching a movie my daughter commented. The heat strong enough to topple the towers. The soldiers sent to rescue who needed rescuing. The soldiers who would not come out again. Those who have chosen to serve and protect, the police officers and the firefighters, as brave as any soldier in battle. Will we ever look at them and the job they do the same? The rubble, the ashes, the billowing smoke lingering as a reminder that none of us is invincible.

William Feehan, fire commissioner. Peter Ganci, fire department chief. Steven Olson, firefighter. Yamel Merino, EMT. People who were doing their jobs. People who were in the line of fire, unable to escape. Five thousand innocent men, women, and children who will not be here for the next Holiday. Where do their families go for comfort? Was Susan Hanson, 35, allowed to hold her daughter, Christine, 3, before the impact? What comforting words could she offer her or herself? How would we respond at such a time?

I went to sleep with the television on. I would awake to look at my wife and children, knowing for now that they are safe. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring. The stories of those looking for their loved ones, as they held pictures up to the screen brought a sense of hope. The knowledge of what happened brought a sense of dread. The dancer, Sonia Morales Puopolo, who will never grace the ballet stage again. The doctor, Paul Ambrose, whose hands will not be allowed to heal again. The spiritual counselor, Paige Farley Hackel, whose work is needed now is in a more spiritual palace. And the list goes on....

I hear the siren going by my office and am thankful for the work of our firemen. I can't imagine the chaos in New York and Washington, D.C. last week. When will it end? and at what cost? My generation has been sheltered in a way. We have not fully known war. Now that I have seen the effects, it is not something, I believe, that anyone wants to know. We will know it, though, at home and oversees. How do you fight a phantom enemy? How does a country that has learned to love life and tries to find ways to extend it fight an enemy that wants to die in order to secure a seat with their Allah?

There are no atheists in foxholes.      Unknown

At Sunday's gathering there were no outcries from the ACLU. There were no court orders to separate Church and State. There were those who were there for the glory of God and country. We were there in communion with our brothers and sisters. We were there to ask God to forgive us and to forgive our enemies. We were there because we had been brought to our knees and while we were down there, we had the chance to pray, to ask God's blessing on us and of those that are now with Him. We were there because not only is there strength in numbers, but there is comfort, as well. All of a sudden the world didn't seem like such a vast, and sometimes distant land. For a while we were a true community. The New York that we have envisioned, the hard, sometimes cocky, bully-like personality, was suddenly more vulnerable, friendlier, compassionate, and in need of help. We as a nation sensed that and have rushed to help. Washington, D.C., that bastion of bickering, political infighting, and deal-making partisan politicians, was now a place where innocent civilians and military personnel who help to protect our country had faces. The faces of humanity.

We shall remember September 11, 2001. We shall know where we were when we heard the news. Much like we know where we were when John F. Kennedy was assassinated or the generation before us remembers where they were when Pearl Harbor was bombed. The images are seared in our collective memory. And despite this, or because of this we have come together and put aside our differences for now, to stand as one nation, under God, indivisible. Our flags will fly, our bodies will be put to rest, but our country will grow stronger, not because we are more powerful (which we are), not because we have the best and brightest minds (which we do), not because we have the greatest leaders, but because we are a nation forged by the idea of justice and freedom. God will watch over us, because we believe in Him. No terrorist can take that away from us. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never.

Long, too long America,

Traveling roads alleven and peaceful you learn'd from joys and

prosperity only,

But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling,

with direst fate and recoiling not,

And now to conceive and show the world what your children

en-masse really are,

(For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children

en-masse really are?).                  Walt Whitman

The Tao of Steve (Prefontaine)

Roland Alton Tolliver, circa 1975

The Tao of Steve

By

Roland Tolliver

“To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.”       --Steve Prefontaine

I haven’t found that there are too many heroes in life. There are a number of people that have worthy traits that are worth emulating. There are those people that have qualities that make them stand out in the world, whether it be in politics, education, sports, the performing arts, religion, and in that all important field of parenting. There is one person, though, that I have not been able to get out of my head since I was a teen. Over the years, I have found some bizarre connection with this man, who will have been gone from this live for the past 33 years this month.

Steve Prefontaine, known simply as “Pre” among those familiar with the man and his life, has generated untold stories of his running acumen, guts, and dedication. He was born Steve Roland Prefontaine on January 25, 1951, exactly seven years to the date of my own birth. Of course, there is the strange coincidence that his middle name and my first name are the same, as well. So, perhaps there was some pre-ordained reason that I was drawn into the near mystical fascination with this Olympic runner and his short, but productive life.

It was the summer before my freshman year in high school when Pre ran the infamous 5,000 meters race in the Olympics in Munich. These were supposed to be the “Happy” Olympics with a return to peace in the world. These Olympic Games will always be remembered for the 13 Israeli athletes and coaches that were killed by Palestinian terrorists after the Israelis had been taken hostage. A number of the athletes managed to escape and hide in the American dorms. Any innocence of the Olympics was lost that year and as recent history has proven too many times, the innocence of a terror-free world is but a dream. Besides Mark Spitz winning seven gold medals in swimming, Frank Shorter winning the marathon, and Dave Wottle with his white gold cap coming from last to first to win the 800 meter race, there is only one event that sticks out in my mind. That was the gutsy race that Steve Prefontaine ran in the 5000 meter final, only to finish spent and in fourth place. He was young, 21, competing against much more seasoned runners, and he almost won an Olympic medal. It was then that I realized that we can’t win all the time, but that we can always give a full effort in whatever we do in life. There have been a number of times in life that I thought it would be easier to just pack it in and give up, but then I think back to that summer and how many obstacle I’ve overcome in life since then.

One of my life’s highlights was living in Munich for a year while I was an undergraduate student and one of the highlights of that year was running a race that concluded on that same track that Steve and Frank and Dave and the U.S. Olympic team and athletes from around the world had competed on. I often go back to that day in my mind, knowing that so many people that have had great influence on my life are no longer here, but carry me through many days as spirit-like inspirations. “Run fast. Run strong,” they say. “Keep going. You can do it,” they remind me. “We’re watching over you. You are not alone,” they remind me. Whether it be my uncle, Wayne, who died in a one car accident almost exactly a year after Pre, or my mother, Mary, who died almost exactly five years after Wayne, or Pre, whom I never had the chance to meet, there words carry me through trying times. Their memories strengthen the loving and fulfilling thoughts and words of my bride and family today. I have found that while it isn’t healthy to dwell in the past, we can meld our history with our present to sustain us today and brighten our tomorrows.

Steve Prefontaine was not only the greatest runner in America during his career, but one who worked equally hard for equality and justice among competitive runners in our country. Many of the changes he fought for against the Amateur Athletic Union eventually came to fruition after his death. The entire Olympic process in our country eventually changed based on the rights he fought do diligently for. It is the essence of making a difference in one’s life that has stuck with me as much as his running prowess has over the years. It is one impetus for trying to make a difference in my community, my church, in my profession and within my family.

“Go, Pre!” his fans would shout at each of his meets. He wouldn’t be around to see the books written about him or the movies made about his short life. He would see the minions of followers that would be influenced by his accomplishments. Steve Prefontaine died in a one-car accident in Eugene, Oregon, the city of his greatest feats, early on the morning of May 30, 1975. There are many theories about the crash, but the only one who knows for sure is gone. No one should be held up as an idol, but there are people that influence who and what we become. We are all influenced by the people we meet in life or by the lives of the people we read or learn about.  For me, I’ve found myself following the Tao of Steve for much of my life and with God’s help hope to follow it for many years to come. One day maybe my children or others will be inclined to follow the “Tao of Roland”. Well, anything’s possible, right?!

Steve Roland Prefontaine, circa 1971

Dr. Roland Tolliver is a freelance writer from Freeport. He often wonders what it would have been like to be an Olympian. He may be reached at rtolliver@kastlepublishing.com. 

Arn and Sweetness

                                                   Arn and Sweetness

In life as in football

you won't go far,

unless you know

where the goalposts are.

Two great men died last week within days of one another. These two men never met, but were an integral part of Chicago and Illinois history. One carried a football for a living. He missed only one game in thirteen years and amassed over 16,000 yards. This was more than any other man who played the game. The other man never missed a day of his adult life doing what he did best, thinking and sharing those thoughts. He amassed thousands of columns, articles and quotes. This was probably more than almost any other writer in his field.

Turning 50 wouldn't be bad... if we were allowed to make a U-turn.

Arnold Glasow was fifty years old when Walter Payton was born. Arnold had lived through the Depression and had embarked on his career as a writer. He was already recognized nationally through his own publications and entries in the Wall Street Journal, Forbes and other magazines and journals. His quotes, quips and witticisms are still used in current issues of leadership publications and quoted by some of the leading speakers in the country. Several years ago, Arnold's daughters sorted through his wealth of written material. The end result was the book, Glasow's Gloombusters. Walter Payton's records are in the books, though these may one day be broken by other players. He toiled in front of tens of thousands of people each Sunday with millions more watching his exploits on television. Both men, though, worked diligently at their respective crafts. Each did what was necessary to be the best at their chosen vocations. Both men exuded a love for their chosen professions and we were the beneficiaries of their talents.

A happy home is more than a roof over your head - it's a foundation under your feet..

Arnold and Walter each leave behind the loves of their lives. Arn's wife, Vera, their two daughters, and a granddaughter were the pillars of his life. Each of these ladies is accomplished in their own right. Walter's wife, Connie, and his two children were the people with whom he shared his life. They will carry on their father's legacy and charitable works. Now each family has the memory of their husband, father, and grandfather to hold onto. People generally crave adulation and appreciation for a job well done. Both of these men garnered a large share of accolades in their lifetimes. When it came down to it, though, each was happiest in the company of their loved ones. The intimate moments away from the crowds or the limelight were the best of times. They both lead by example in putting family first. Their children are a testament to the love that they received in their formative years.

Podiatrist: a doctor who bills the foot.

I never met Walter Payton, but the Bears' team podiatrist was one of my teachers. I know that Walter needed his services on many occasions, especially for "turf toe", a common injury among football players. I met Arn for the first time as a patient in my office several years ago. When it became too difficult for him to come to the office, I was given the opportunity to visit him in his home. He and Vera always welcomed me into their home with open arms. I may have been there on business, but the pleasure was definitely mine. He always inquired about my family, about the practice, and about my writing. He was quick to share his insightful wit. His mind was sharp even until the last visit with him four days before he was called Home by the Lord.

Obstacles are those terrifying things we see when we take our eyes off the goal.

When I started work on our book, For the Love of Community, I asked Arn and his family about putting a project like this together. They shared with me the knowledge they had gained by going through the process. When our book was completed I wanted to make sure that he and Vera received one of the first copies and eventually a copy of the tape. Their words of encouragement were heartfelt and greatly appreciated. When Walter Payton saw the goal line, he did whatever it took to get across it. He used his speed, strength, agility and guile to score a touchdown, sometimes all during the same play. Arn taught me that we often need to use all of our resources to complete our goals, like publishing a book. When we believe in something and have the conviction to see it through, amazing things happen in our lives. Arn and Walter were living examples to that fact.

Eulogy: too much - too late.

Walter Payton's death made national headlines. He was a well-known athlete, humanitarian, and great human being. Thousands of people gathered for a memorial in Soldier Field on a sunny Saturday afternoon in November to pay tribute to him. This typically quiet, unassuming man who loved his family, his community and the neediest of its children also loved life, practical jokes, his close friends and especially his family. His legacy is one of accomplishment through dedication and hard work. These are lessons from which we can all learn.

Arnold Glasow's life will be remembered not for his athletic accomplishments, but for those of the human mind and the human spirit. A man who celebrated life's triumphs and who always found a way to laugh at the adversity placed in his path. He shared that all too uncommon trait in today's hurry-up, road rage, deadline-meeting world...humor. He was able to laugh at himself and at the foibles of life. He saw the absurd in everyday occurrences. A twist of words at the right moment in time provided a chuckle when it was needed. Good, clean humor was his trademark. In an NC-17 world, Arn was a ray of G-rated sunshine. The G stood for goodness, graciousness, gladness and Glasow. His memorial will not be in front of thousands. It will be held at Grace Episcopal Church for family, friends and those wishing to pay their respects this Friday afternoon in Freeport. I can only imagine that it is just as Arn would have wanted.

Life: the original endurance contest.

Walter Payton, some will say, died before his time. Arnold Glasow, others will say, lived a long and fruitful life. Who are we to say when it is our time? Each day we try to improve on yesterday. We can never love too much, share too much, or care too much when the cause is pure. One man gave us a lifetime of enjoyment through a game. The other man gave us a lifetime of wisdom through his words. What can be said of each man is that he gave his best, he shared a piece of his life with us , he loved his family, and he cared about his God and his community. Arn was a modest man, but this last quote says much about both men, each of whom will be greatly missed, and the lesson we can learn:

Success is simple: do what's right, the right way, at the right time.

Thank you, Arn. Thank you, Sweetness.

Writing and running, quick-witted and just plain quick. Two great men. One sad week. Our loss is surely Heaven's gain.

Author's note: Quotations are from Arnold Glasow's book: Glasow's Gloombusters

Sensata and Sensibility

I drive by this plant and "Bainport" every day. I feel for the employees, many of whom are friends and patients, but this has been going on with this plant, previously Honeywell, for the last decade. Friends have had to train their replacements in Mexico, India and China. The only reason this is making more news is that it is a Presidential election year and it has become a rallying point for the Democratic ticket. We are losing jobs left and right, even the Unemployment office is scheduled to be closed by our Democratic Governor Quinn, but I don't see the Reverends Jackson or Sharpton out protesting this, because it doesn't support their cause of pinning it on Romney. And while President Obama is not invested in Bain Capital, neither has he returned more than $125,000 in donations for his campaign from them either. Much like Fairgrounds Road, where "Bainport" has set up camp, this is not a one-way street.  Sensata and Sensibility  The President and Bain Capital

Schatzie

   

“Blessed are you, Lord God, maker of all living creatures. You called forth fish in the sea, birds in the air and animals on the land. You inspired St. Francis to call all of them his brothers and sisters. We ask you to bless this pet. By the power of your love, enable it to live according to your plan. May we always praise you for all your beauty in creation. Blessed are you, Lord our God, in all your creatures. Amen."                                                                                                                         Pet Blessing for St. Francis of Assisi

She was the pick of the litter. We had thought about taking her twin brother, as well, but settled on one kitten. We named her Schatzie, after the German endearment for "treasure." She received the appropriate name. Schatzie came home with us when she was six weeks old in the summer of 1985. We had just moved into our new apartment in Chicago. I was starting my residency and my wife, Irena, was to return to her teaching position at St. Hedwig's in Chicago. A cat seemed like the perfect companion. Low maintenance. No midnight walks. Relatively self-sufficient.

I know that imprinting takes place among birds, but I think that Schatzie and I must have shared some of the same type of bonding. Cats are notorious for being stand-offish, preferring to do their own thing. Schatzie became a people cat. She would climb up my pant leg when I came home and perch herself on my shoulders. I would walk around the house with her draped around my neck like a live fur coat. I would relish in her gentle purring and the warmth she provided. She quickly found her sleeping position on either my back or one of my hips. In the morning she would be on my chest, greeting me with a rough tongue on my chin, which was probably even rougher due to my early morning beard.

That summer we went on a return trip to northern Michigan, where we had gone for our honeymoon. Schatzie spent the week keeping the mice at bay. She crouched in the corner and would stare for hours, waiting for a meal. She enjoyed curling up by the fireplace in the evenings staving off the evening chill.

When I was growing up I had two cats. One died early, only days after he came home with us from the humane society. The other, Mike, was a Siamese that stayed for a month or two, before he was given away. My parents did not have much of an affinity for cats, especially house cats. I was determined that Schatzie would have a good home and be well-loved.

It is said that there is a certain symmetry to life. The first time we ever came to Freeport was to pick up our friends' cat, Cassie, who they could no longer keep. Our friends were living in Waterloo, Iowa and we offered to take their cat. We thought she would be good company for Schatzie. We met at the old Burger King on Galena Avenue. Little did I know that in five years we would become residents of that same city. Even more unusual, I guess, is that Dr. David Labadie, whose cat we took into our home, would come to join us in Freeport, eleven years after that. She and Schatzie never did see eye to eye. Schatzie wanted to play and Cassie wanted to be left alone. Schatzie wanted to explore and Cassie was set in her ways. Cassie eventually went to live with a family on a farm in Wisconsin.

"The smallest feline is a masterpiece."                                                                                                              Leonardo da Vinci

Schatzie welcomed our children born in Chicago. She greeted Mary with curiosity when we arrived home from the hospital. She paced with us when Irena was in labor with Veronica and curled up in the corner waiting when Veronica was born. She seemed to take it all in stride. She still found her corner of the bed, though most often it was somewhere on me where she could stay warm through the night. She sat in the car during the move to Freeport, not knowing what adventures lie before her or us.

She would survive an attack by a neighbor's dog. She would greet another girl, Claire, born at home. She would make herself at home in our next house. Welcome another daughter, Teresa, born in that house. Compete for attention with our new dog, Bijay. Be entertained by several hamsters that lived much shorter lives. Find herself moving again into our current house. See another dog, Taffy, come into the house and go to live with some friends on a farm by Elizabeth. And be there for the birth of our son, Greg. Through it all she remained a lap cat, or in my case a shoulder cat. If I wasn't available she would jump up on the lap of just about anyone who came into the house. She would play with balls rolled to her and jump at string. Her favorite game was a form of peek-a-boo where I would put my fingers in the crack of the door by the hinge and she would bat at them.

Schatzie had a few problems with her kidneys over the years. Dr. Condie or Dr. Summers would help us keep her healthy and she'd be right back on track. During the summer months she would wander the woods near our house. Her caterwauling would usually wake me up around two or three o'clock in the morning. Some nights she would jump out of bed when Claire was having a seizure. I think that she alerted me on more than one occasion to check on Claire in the middle of the night.

Over the past year Schatzie's kidneys became weaker and we had to confine her to a back room. Eventually we set up a place for her in the garage. We try to prepare for the inevitable. We share with our children that every living thing, people and animals one day will die. It is all part of living we tell ourselves and them. When a pet comes into our lives we give of ourselves and learn about the unconditional love that can come from this living creature. They are dependent on us and without knowing how or when, we become dependent on them. And then, even though we think we are prepared, we find ourselves in tears thinking about the life that was lived. When the ninth life is up, a part of us goes with the life that was.

"The cat has too much spirit to have no heart."                                                                                                                   Ernest Menaul

Schatzie died sometime between Saturday night and Sunday morning. I could never think about euthanasia for her. She was meant to die at home. She was getting weaker and we knew that there wasn't much time left for her or for us with her. I held her on my lap Saturday evening. Her purr was barely audible, but it was there. She tried to lift her head and managed to lick my fingers. It is never easy to say good-bye, but we both knew that it was almost time. She would have been seventeen in a couple of months. I know that is a long time for a cat, but it doesn't make it any easier. She was with us longer than any of our children. She taught us and them about love, life, playfulness, tolerance, and eventually death.

This winter my shoulders and neck will not be nearly as warm. Our days will go on. Our sorrow will weigh heavy. Our memories will remain. Bless you, Schatzie, for coming into our lives. You will always have a place in our hearts. And on our laps.

The Comforts of Home Revisited

To Our Son Gregory on the eve of his 13th Birthday. Thought you might like to read about the account of your birth...on that beautiful Sunday morning, you blessed our lives.

Comforts of Home, Revisited

by

Roland Tolliver

A child was born the other day,

He came into the world in the usual way. Harry Chapin

It started with a tap on the shoulder, rousing me from a deep, comfortable slumber. Actually, it started nine months earlier. Labor had begun in earnest about 11:30 p.m. on Saturday night. It was now about 1:45 a.m. on Sunday and Irena needed my assistance as the contractions became stronger.

We've been through this before. Four times to be exact. Once in the hospital and three time in three different homes. Yes, we are in a new home as of last May. I guess we have a strange way of initiating our new homes.

Our four daughters slept through most of the night, leaving us undisturbed. I called the midwife at about a quarter to five and she was there by fifteen minutes after six. Previous experience led us to believe that our new baby would be here before too long.

I tried to concentrate on the task at hand. The questions kept cropping up, however. Everyone had asked, "Are you hoping for a boy?". With everything that has happened with our six-year-old, Claire, I was serious when I replied, " It doesn't matter. I just want it to be healthy." When you have all daughters, just about everyone thinks that you are "trying for a boy" with any subsequent pregnancies. The question persists even in this enlightened day. Our daughters are as valuable to us as any children, whatever gender, could possibly be. We'll keep all four of them just as they are.

The contractions were closer together now and more intense. The warm bath seemed to help. I could only offer moral support and a hand to squeeze when needed.

Who would God bless us with this time? I remembered that someone once said, "Our destinies are determined by the questions we ask." I still had so many. We still hadn't come to a conclusion about a girl's name. Finally, about four o'clock, we had decided on Emma May. We had vacillated between three or four names. A boy's name was easy. We had decided that years ago. Are there any certainties in life? Which name would we need this time?

I continued to wonder, what will the world be like for our child? Will he or she be able to know the freedoms that we have taken for granted? What has happened to the last twelve years since our daughter, Mary, was born? She is on the verge of becoming a young woman. Is that really possible? Can Veronica be almost ten? Wasn't she just a two-year-old a few days ago? Claire, you’ve lived a lifetime of trials in your six short years. What does the future hold in store for you? Teresa, I know you were just born yesterday. Has it been almost three years since you greeted us on New Year's Day? The days seem to go by slowly, but the years.... Where are they going? Do they have to be in such a hurry?

"Breathe, Irena, breathe," was the constant reminder. Pain and pleasure. Two sides of the same coin. Women go through the pain of labor to enjoy the pleasure of seeing their newborn children. We go through pain in life, which allows us to realize the pleasures. The infinite wisdom in our universe is that both are there for us. Night and day. Winter and Summer. Pain and pleasure. Death and life.

I don't know why I was thinking of the poor, tortured children in Wisconsin. The little girl that had been locked in the dog cage. The boy in Indiana, who was repeatedly locked in the closet. The girl chained up in her room in California. The babies murdered in New Jersey and in Freeport. What could these people be thinking? Adults who were supposed to take care of the lives that placed their trust in them had become traitors to the sanctity of human life. We have looked forward to each new gift, waiting with open arms. We try not to judge. Understanding is beyond our comprehension in some of these cases.

"Al, come quick. The water bag just broke," our midwife yelled down to me, as I was fixing breakfast for our two younger daughters.

I ran up the stairs. I caught the baby's head. The eyes were open and appeared to be surveying the new surroundings. Then we heard sounds like someone was talking. The girls had entered the room and we thought it was Teresa. The baby was gurgling as if saying, "You can let me out any time now." Irena gave a final push and.... in the room where the love between two people, husband and wife, is professed, a baby was born.

Gregory Roland Tolliver entered the world at 7:50 a.m. on Sunday, September 12, 1999. Welcome to the world, son. Meet your mother and father. These young ladies are your sisters. You'll meet your grandparents soon. Thank, Sheryl, our birth attendant.

There are so many questions that go unanswered this day. We'll find out the answers in due time. For now, we'll celebrate your arrival and bask in the glory of parenthood. Gregory lay sleeping in my arms, resting from the long journey. The journey from darkness into light. The journey from love to waiting arms. The journey from what was to what may be.

"Sleep well, my son, sleep well. Tomorrow the journey continues.

I Hear America Calling

I Hear America Calling

by

Roland Tolliver

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;

When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day;

One look I but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a look I shall never forget,

One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground. Walt Whitman

Friday night we gathered at the football field to cheer for the players victorious. The band played and the cheerleaders cheered. The poms danced in the clear night air. This was done throughout the area at different stadiums as it has been for years. Somehow it was different, though.

Sunday we gathered in solemn remembrance of those who will no longer cheer on this earth. We prayed in the stands where prayer is not usually public. We wept and God seemed to weep with us as the rain fell lightly at the end of the ceremony. A friend commented that she "really needed this" referring to this public mourning time. The words were comforting. A time for the community to start the healing process. Different faiths, different races, different ideologies. All Americans.

The images still linger. The crashes, the burning of buildings, the terror. The images of those falling or jumping out of the buildings. Flying to a death most certain when nothing else seemed certain. The pictures that haunt us. The sounds of the phone calls, as if calling from the grave, to tell family members that they are loved.

Father Judge killed as he administered last rights to a dying firefighter. Angela Houtz, 27, doing her work at the Pentagon. The heroes of United Flight 93, like Todd Beamer who yelled "Let's roll" before attempting with at least two others to overtake the hijackers and crashing into rural Pennsylvania. Todd will not have the chance to see his third child who is expected in January. How do you tell your children that their mommy or daddy will not be coming home anymore?

Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity,

some of them dead,

Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether,

the odor of blood,

The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms, the yard outside,

also fill'd,

Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in

the death-spasm sweating,

An occasional scream or cry, ... Walt Whitman

We saw it happen and we couldn't look away. Glued to the gore that was being shown. Shown repeatedly. How many time did the jets hit the towers? The inferno was like watching a movie my daughter commented. The heat strong enough to topple the towers. The soldiers sent to rescue who needed rescuing. The soldiers who would not come out again. Those who have chosen to serve and protect, the police officers and the firefighters, as brave as any soldier in battle. Will we ever look at them and the job they do the same? The rubble, the ashes, the billowing smoke lingering as a reminder that none of us is invincible.

William Feehan, fire commissioner. Peter Ganci, fire department chief. Steven Olson, firefighter. Yamel Merino, EMT. People who were doing there job. People who were in the line of fire, unable to escape. Five thousand innocent men, women, and children who will not be here for the next Holiday. Where do their families go for comfort? Was Susan Hanson, 35, allowed to hold her daughter, Christine, 3, before the impact? What comforting words could she offer her or herself? How would we respond at such a time?

I went to sleep with the television on. I would awake to look at my wife and children, knowing for now that they are safe. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring. The stories of those looking for their loved ones, as they held pictures up to the screen brought a sense of hope. The knowledge of what happened brought a sense of dread. The dancer, Sonia Morales Puopolo, who will never grace the ballet stage again. The doctor, Paul Ambrose, whose hands will not be allowed to heal again. The spiritual counselor, Paige Farley Hackel, whose work is needed now is in a more spiritual palace. And the list goes on....

I hear the siren going by my office and am thankful for the work of our firemen. I can't imagine the chaos in New York and Washington, D.C. last week. When will it end? and at what cost? My generation has been sheltered in a way. We have not fully known war. Now that I have seen the effects, it is not something, I believe, that anyone wants to know. We will know it, though, at home and oversees. How do you fight a phantom enemy? How does a country that has learned to love life and tries to find ways to extend it fight an enemy that wants to die in order to secure a seat with their Allah?

There are no atheists in foxholes. Unknown

At Sunday's gathering there were no outcries from the ACLU. There were no court orders to separate Church and State. There were those who were there for the glory of God and country. We were there in communion with our brothers and sisters. We were there to ask God to forgive us and to forgive our enemies. We were there because we had been brought to our knees and while we were down there, we had the chance to pray, to ask God's blessing on us and of those that are now with Him. We were there because not only is there strength in numbers, but there is comfort, as well. All of a sudden the world didn't seem like such a vast, and sometimes distant land. For a while we were a true community. The New York that we have envisioned, the hard, sometimes cocky, bully-like personality, was suddenly more vulnerable, friendlier, compassionate, and in need of help. We as a nation sensed that and have rushed to help. Washington, D.C., that bastion of bickering, political infighting, and deal-making partisan politicians, was now a place where innocent civilians and military personnel who help to protect our country had faces. The faces of humanity.

We shall remember September 11, 2001. We shall know where we were when we heard the news. Much like we know where we were when John F. Kennedy was assassinated or the generation before us remembers where they were when Pearl Harbor was bombed. The images are seared in our collective memory. And despite this, or because of this we have come together and put aside our differences for now, to stand as one nation, under God, indivisible. Our flags will fly, our bodies will be put to rest, but our country will grow stronger, not because we are more powerful (which we are), not because we have the best and brightest minds (which we do), not because we have the greatest leaders, but because we are a nation forged by the idea of justice and freedom. God will watch over us, because we believe in Him. No terrorist can take that away from us. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never.

Long, too long America,

Traveling roads alleven and peaceful you learn'd from joys and

prosperity only,

But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling,

with direst fate and recoiling not,

And now to conceive and show the world what your children

en-masse really are,

(For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children

en-masse really are?). Walt Whitman