Cindy La Ferle’s Home Officea window on the writing life

Remembering 09/11

Cindy on September 10th, 2008

Originally titled “The Long Way Home,” this essay first appeared in the Daily Tribune of Royal Oak on September 20, 2001. It was selected for inclusion in 09/11 8:48 AM: Documenting America’s Greatest Tragedy, a collection of “raw and immediate” writings on the September 11 attacks, edited by Ethan Casey and the NYU Department of Journalism. It is also included in my book, Writing Home.

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A little more than a week has passed since our country was attacked and brought to its knees. A friend of mine says she is trying to wake up from what she calls Stephen King’s worst nightmare. The rest of us still feel as though we’ve been wandering in a fog, unable to find our way home. Home, it seems, has been completely redesigned by horrific acts of terrorism. Ever since last Tuesday, everything is different. Everything.

I have stopped assuming that home will ever be completely safe from disaster. This thought alone makes every wall, every window, every piece of oak, maple, brick, or concrete in my neighborhood, my world, seem all the more precious.

I’ve also stopped obsessing over the things I used to obsess about. I’ve stopped worrying about the fact that my refrigerator needs cleaning and the walls in the kitchen need repainting. Things like that don’t matter now. My focus has changed. It doesn’t matter if my family leaves a mess on the breakfast counter every morning. And so what if I trip over somebody’s shoes in the hallway? I am deeply grateful that there are people living here — eating breakfast and wearing shoes.

I imagine this is all part of the grieving process, and that someday things will seem normal again. Right now, though, I feel a bit like Emily in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. Emily is the character who, near the end of the play, returns to her hometown as a ghost and realizes how much she took for granted when she was alive. Emily recites a list of the simple things that made her days precious — things like the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the morning.

I know exactly what she meant. This week I’m savoring the taste of summer’s last tomatoes. I’m taking time to watch the sun set behind the maples in our yard, and to listen to the sound of cathedral bells just a few blocks away.  But I can’t think of anyone who is appreciating the comforts of home as much as Norma Gormly of Troy, Michigan.

Norma’s plane was diverted back to London’s Gatwick Airport immediately following the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Norma and her daughter, Jan, had been on vacation and ended up stranded at a bed-and-breakfast inn outside London until the airways were cleared for their return to the United States. Theirs was the first Northwest flight to leave last Friday. As Norma told me, it was quite an experience.

“We had to go through four checkpoints and check in all bags,” she recalled. “We were allowed our purses with personal stuff only. Following a body search, we were admitted to the lounge area.” None of the passengers complained, though, even though their wait was long.  Another three hours passed before their flight left Gatwick.

“We felt good that they had done all that they could for our safety,” Norma said. “We had the same flight crew from our diverted plane.” That crew, Norma recalled, wore black ribbons around the gold wings on their uniforms. Some were fighting tears, “but they all promised to do their best to make our trip as normal as possible. Our captain was informative and soothing.”

Norma and her fellow passengers clapped and cheered loudly as their plane finally took off. They cheered again when the plane passed over Canada. And it was, as Norma remembers, a tremendous relief to arrive back home in America.

“We cheered and clapped, then cheered and clapped again upon landing at Metro Airport. We were home at last!” No matter what shape it’s in, Norma added, there’s no place like home. Home is a word every American cherishes – more than ever, now. — Cindy La Ferle

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Trust no one?

Cindy on August 25th, 2008

The young man ringing the doorbell looked clean-cut and harmless.  Opening the door, I assumed he was one of my son’s friends and greeted him with a smile. But the kid turned out to be a con artist posing as a needy college student.

“I’m selling magazine subscriptions to help pay for school tuition,” he began, racing through his spiel and waving a laminated brochure in my face. “Your neighbor Bob told me to stop by. I grew up in this neighborhood,” he added, motioning toward the next street, which he named correctly. This kid had done his homework. We do have a neighbor named Bob — but our Bob would never tell a solicitor to drop by and pitch magazine subscriptions. Smelling a scam, I said no and quickly shut the door.

“The reason you don’t recognize me is because I’ve been away at college,” he shouted as the deadbolt clicked. Yeah, right. I might have believed his fairy-tale had I not fallen for the same trap several years ago when, duh, I wrote a check for two magazine subscriptions to another young con artist posing as a student. My check was cashed but I never received the magazines. I still turn red thinking about it, but I’m older (and a bit wiser) now, so I’m going public with my shame in the hope that others might be spared a similar rip-off.

Despite the “No Soliciting” signs posted at both entrances to our home, all kinds of salespeople ring our doorbells and pound on the front door, often interrupting dinner or a deadline. Some claim they didn’t notice the signs. Others insist they really aren’t “soliciting” but are collecting for a worthy charity or campaigning for God.

Door-to-door soliciting used to be little more than a garden-variety annoyance. But where I live in the Midwest, automotive companies and manufacturers announce layoffs or plant closings almost weekly, and our regional economy is sagging. Car theft and household burglaries are on the rise in our neighborhoods. Meanwhile, local police have traced several burglaries in my suburban neighborhood to thieves posing as door-to-door solicitors. We’ve formed a Neighborhood Watch group to keep everyone informed and on alert.

Regardless, I still find it hard not to answer a knock at my door. (What if it’s a delivery person? Or one of the neighborhood kids?)  But as my husband reminds me, solicitors aren’t invited guests, and I have every right to ignore them.

These days, I’m learning to peek through the front window before opening my door to anyone. And, as the police advised our Neighborhood Watch group, I don’t judge anyone by appearances. Solicitors often dress professionally to earn confidence — sometimes carrying official-looking clipboards and bogus permits. Of course, not all solicitors are con artists, but now I find it hard to trust any stranger who comes to my door. Honestly, I never used to be like this. I miss the days when I opened my door to everyone, and my welcome mat really meant what it says.  –Cindy La Ferle

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