The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month

It's Veteran's Day.  It's also (originally was) Armistice Day.  The day "The guns fell silent."  You'll see flags flying, parades, the "support our troops" stickers etc.  I think we all know what a Veteran is. But how well do you know the conflicts these people were a part of? Do you know the things they gave up in order to serve their country? Are you aware that combat Veteran's never really “get over it”? Are you aware that the dwindling number of living WWII Veterans are still sometimes haunted by “their” war almost eighty years after it ended? Have you thought about our peace-time Veterans and the things they gave up to serve their country? Regardless of whether they saw combat or not, they all sacrificed their youth to serve. They didn't get to see their families, didn't get to see their children born by the wives they didn't get to see. They didn't get to see their siblings graduate high school or college. They missed their pets. A vinyl “support our troops” sticker is a hollow gesture if the veterans as a whole are not considered.

Want to know how bad this lack of understanding is? Years ago, on Veteran's Day, I had a brief conversation with a young lady at my local convenience store. She asked me if I would be interested in purchasing one of the “support our troops” stickers. I politely declined. She mumbled something about being unpatriotic (we knew each other fairly well as I was a regular at that store) and I turned to leave, starting to feel a little ashamed of myself. Then, something in my head snapped. I turned back towards her and asked “When did WWI end?” She gave me a blank stare. I then said “It's an easy question to answer. The answer is staring you in the face.” Blank stare. “WWI ended on this day in 1918. Do you happen to know what Veteran's Day was originally called? Armistice Day. WWI ended on the 11^th hour of the 11^th day of the 11^th month, 1918.” She was beginning to regret her unpatriotic comment towards me. “I'm sorry, that was a bit unfair. Here's an easier question for you. After all, we're both products of the same school system. Where is the WWI memorial (in our town) located?
She replied “In the park with all the others.” Credit to her for, at least, knowing where to find some memorials. “That is incorrect. The WWI memorial is downtown. You've driven by it countless times but, like most people, never see it.” She was, clearly, pissed at me. Probably thought I was trying to be a dick. I was polite during all of this, I was not trying to belittle her at all. I ended with “Veteran's Day is not only about the 'current' conflict. One is not required to display their patriotism and maybe you might read a book or two before you start accusing people of being unpatriotic. I'll see you tomorrow.”

My first experience with a Veteran was my neighbor. He died when I was very young so my memories are limited. Pat was a WWI veteran who saw combat. He was gassed and was in a hospital when his unit returned home. He was left to find his own way back to the US. There was no Veteran's Administration at that time. He got married, had a son and then had to suffer the Great Depression. Then, WWII started and his only son joined the Navy. His son was killed. Went down with his destroyer in the Mediterranean. I'm sure it was heart breaking for Mr. and Mrs N. When my family moved in next door to them, they treated us all like family. Mr. and Mrs. N loved my older siblings and I as if we were their own children. As I mentioned previously, my memories of them are few as I was just a toddler, but I do remember one specific thing. Going next door to visit Mr. N. (his wife had passed away previously) and seeing him sitting in his favorite chair (a green one which eventually ended up in our house), reading his paper and smoking his pipe. Slightly balding gray hair, glasses and slippers. The only other memory I have of him is visiting him in a nursing home, most likely just before he died. He had saved the orange from his lunch so he could give it to me. What a wonderful man. He had seen and experienced some horrible, horrible things, but yet he loved every day.

After my neighbor, I learned of my Father's and multiple Uncle's service in different branches of the military. A large portion of the teachers I had were veterans as well. WWII, Korea and Vietnam. One of them, Mr. Bill, stood out. I was lucky to have him as a teacher not once, but twice. No, I didn't flunk a grade. Mr. Bill switched from teaching fourth grade to teaching fifth grade. I didn't learn of his time in Vietnam until fifth grade. That was the year the Vietnam Memorial Wall was opened in Washington. It was also the time when most of his male students were becoming interested in guns, tanks, planes and war in general. As the callow youth we were, we had no clue what war actually was. The John Wayne “Sands of Iwo Jima” mentality was still predominant, even in the early '80s. As a grown man, I look back on that time and feel ashamed at how ignorant I was. Mr. Bill, being the great human he is, took it in stride. He even showed my how to roll up my sleeves in proper Marine Corps fashion. He told us, as a class, that he would be gone for a week so he could visit the Wall with another teacher from our school, Mr. M. After Mr. Bill's week-long absence he sat us down as a class and explained (briefly, we were young and dumb) the Vietnam war and his participation in it. He shared canned peanut butter with us, showed us some photographs... He even had a Q&A sessions with us. The only question I can remember came from Stacy. She had a speech impediment (regardless, she was a great girl) she asked “So, didju, didju shoot anyone?” An innocent question from a kid who, like the rest of us, was quite clueless. I guess I knew enough about war to think “NOOOOO!!!! You don't ask that sort of thing!!” You see, Mr. Bill and Mr. M were kinda known to the students as having short tempers. You didn't fuck with either of them. Period. So, I was fully expecting Mr. Bill to be sending her to the Principal's office. But, he didn't. He politely declined to answer the question and moved on. He told us about sleeping with his rifle, how he was a machine gunner, about the troubles he had adjusting back to the “real world”, how he was only able to sleep on the floor for months after he came home, how his parents had to learn not to just barge into his room to wake him. I suppose his visit to the Wall, as with many Vietnam veterans, gave him some semblance of inner peace. Enough that he was able to share some of it with his students. To this day he is, hands down, my favorite teacher. And he also remembers the names of every single student he ever had. In my early twenties I had gone to the county fair and found Mr. Bill doing ticket duty at the gate. “Hi Mr. Bill. Good to see you.” “Good to see you too. Don't get into trouble in there, Tim.” “Yes sir.” In junior high I had Mr. Luck, a history teacher. He was fond of saying “War is hell. I know, I've been there!” We used to joke about him saying he was in both the European and Pacific theaters... Goes to show how little I knew. I never learned specifics about Mr. Luck, but I did know he was air crew of some sort. I should look into that...

In more recent times an old friend of mine did a few tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He's suffering PTSD, but is learning to cope with it. A few other close friends served, though not in combat. In my mind there is no difference. I remember my Father taking me down to the post office to register for the selective service (I went Navy because that's where Dad served). I never, ever expected to drafted. I remember the start of the first Gulf war. Chad came bursting into the milk cooler at the grocery store and hollered “Pack your bags, we're going to war!” I can hear you chuckling. Yes, it's okay in hindsight, but at that time it hit me right in the core. Before the doors of that milk cooler stopped swinging, I had already figured out what to do with my stuff before I got sent off to the middle east. I kid you not, I was fully expecting to get a letter from Uncle Sam. Cut me some slack, I was 18/19 and very naïve. Then came 11 September, 2001. Again, I was expecting a letter from Uncle Sam. “Well, the apartment's on a month to month lease so that can just run out. I can put all of my stuff and my truck at Mom's house....”

I've written about the veterans I've met at that time and since already, so no need to do it again. These days I have a much, much better understanding of war and the things those who fight wars go through. Tip of the hat to the public library and the many veterans I've known throughout the years. Veteran's Day is not about a silly sticker on your SUV or the whole “Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the 'ol oak tree...” nonsense. It's about the people. The people who have sacrificed their lives, their limbs, their mental stability and their family life. All so the rest of us can be free. That's why we honor our veterans on this day.

Thoughts of A Mechanic

Me with my first car.  Was during my first "career job" at the time.

Almost daily I ask myself "Did I make the right career choice?"  To which I have no definite answer.  I often think that I should have stayed in school so I might have had a better choice of career.  Ya know what?  I don't think it really matters all that much.  Whatever it is you do day to day, it's still a job.  Should I have continued with a more music oriented path?  Should I have followed the machinist route?  What about art or photography?  I'm a creative type of person so any of those paths would suit me.  Still, choosing your career is like choosing which child you will sacrifice.  I liked working on cars in my youth so I made it my career choice.  It didn't take but ten years (about six professionally) to kill that enthusiasm.  The last thing I want to do, when not at work, is fix anything with an engine.  My lawn mower starts and spins a blade that, mostly, cuts grass.  If an issue doesn't prevent me from cutting grass, it doesn't get fixed.  That age-old line of "The car belonged to a mechanic..." is, despite what you may think, not desirable. A mechanic spends his/her days fixing other peoples' shit.  They don't want to do it at home.  But it's not all about fixing things.

A good mechanic is, generally, an all around problem solver.  It doesn't matter what is in need of repair.  A typewriter, water heater, squeaky recliner, an unsolved crossword puzzle, a broken heart... When something isn't as it should be, a mechanic wants to know why.  Is the problem related to neglect, shitty design, stress failure etc.  The mechanic then thinks about how to solve that problem.  Not just repair it, but prevent it from happening again.  The difference between a mechanic and everyone else can be illustrated by this situation.  A person driving down the road notices their vehicle overheating.  A "fixer" would open the hood and see (fictitious situation here) that the serp belt is broken and/or missing.  The "fixer" would get a belt, throw it on and start moving again.  Only to have that new belt break or get thrown off.  Another new belt, same problem....  A mechanic will see that belt missing and wonder why it's missing.  A mechanic knows that it's very rare for a serp belt to simply break due to failure.  The mechanic would reach into the engine compartment and spin all of the pulleys by hand in order to see if anything has seized or has become sloppy.  Duct tape around a radiator hose is only going to last so long.  Sure, it will get you off the road, but it's not the solution.

I apologize for getting off track.  Long story short, I believe I have made the right choice as career is concerned.  I enjoy solving problems.  Sure, my main goal at the start of every shift is to complete the shift and go home, but I still get caught up in things.  This past Friday I was at shop for fourteen hours.  Why?  See it?  I'm so analytical that I have to figure out why I was at work for fourteen hours!  LOL!  It's a combination of things, not necessarily because I'm a mechanic, but because I'm a product of my parents.  My parents instilled within me an attitude of "Do what needs to be done" and "Do the right thing."  I had a job that (Goddammit!) wasn't going to get the best of me and, also, a long "to do" list.  The public me was brushing off some stuff that wasn't "important enough" to warrant a long shift.  The real me knew (Goddammit!) that I was going to get everything done because it's the right thing to do.  My years at this truck shop have revealed to me just how many people don't give a shit and are willing to pack up and leave at the end of their eight hours.  No thought given to the driver who is half a country away from home, the deadlines that have to be met, the driver's lost income due to the down time etc.  I may have to put in a few more hours, but if it gets that truck rolling again I'm okay with it.  My skills, the skills learned and honed over two decades, are put to good use.  And I get paid for it.  I, occasionally, get tips for my service.  I don't accept them.  I'm just doing my job.  If the customer is adamant about giving me a tip, I'll accept it, then I'll try and slip it back in their truck when they're not looking.  If that's not possible, I'll buy pop, donuts or something else for the shop with that tip.  My pay isn't the greatest, but it's enough to run a single income household with just a shade extra.  I'm doin' okay.

It's when a customer tries to tip me that I know I made the right career choice.  To me, it means I'm doing a good job.  I'm "Using my skills for good, not evil!" as I am wont to say.  I also realize that my skills go beyond the "mechanic" role.  I have a larger vocabulary and a better understanding of writing in general, than the average mechanic.  I also have a tad more creativity overall than the average mechanic.  Not being high brow, just being honest.  My parents, and some really good teachers over the years, have given (and fostered) those skill to me.  My punctuation and grammar are atrocious to a properly educated writer, but I don't think I'm doing too bad when it comes to expressing myself via text.  What do you think?

In conclusion (cheesy closer, I know...) you should follow your instincts.  You should also be aware that the things you may want to make a career out of, may end up being the last thing you want to do.  "Never turn a hobby into a career" comes to mind.  The difficult part is not choosing a career, but making sure you pick the right career for you.  I got mine (as with most things) by dumb luck.  Your experience may differ.

p.s. Thank you so much to the people sent me a note in response to my last post.  I stated right from the beginning that this blog is about me having a way to get things off my chest.  Still, it's nice to know that other people find my (often drunken) ramblings useful.  Thank you for taking the time out of your day to read my blog.  It means a lot to this old S.O.B.

I have become "The Closer"

You see that mess of metal and plastic in the photo?  Somewhere in there is a treadle valve.  For you car guys, it's like a pneumatic version of a master cylinder.  For those of you who don't know a thing about cars or trucks, it's a valve attached to the brake pedal that makes your vehicle stop before you put down your cell phone and attempt to not plow into a bus full of kids.  My regular readers (all five of you) are already expecting a rant from me.  You are correct.  The original complaint from our customer was "The brakes don't always release and seem to drag."  The first guy sent to address the issue came to the conclusion "Brake drums are glazed and rippled."  Not even close.  But, the guy came from a salvage yard.  Good at identifying components and taking them apart, but not so good at diagnosis.  He hasn't been with us long so I wouldn't expect an accurate diagnosis.  Nor would he have been my first choice to send out on this job.  Strike one.  Next guy that was dispatched to address this issue came to the conclusion that the treadle (sometimes referred to as "foot") valve was bad.  Then I jumped to conclusions.  This particular customer has a rather old fleet of Sterling tractors (God, how I hate those trucks) and treadle valves are usually mounted to the floor of the cab.  The common problem is a corroded brake pedal pivot pin and/or corroded plunger which connects the pedal to the valve.  I asked the second guy "Why did you not check the pedal and plunger for corrosion?"  His response was "I don't know."  Fair enough.  He's still green.  I explained the issues with that set up and then told him how to correct it.  He had instructed the customer to order a treadle valve.  Strike two.  Guy number two returned to the site a week later when the customer informed us that they had the part.  Number two returned to the shop that night saying that he couldn't change the valve because he didn't have the necessary tools in the service truck.  The shop's owner, though I didn't actually hear him say it (I've been there long enough to be able to predict his responses), probably said something like "All of the service trucks should have X amount of tools.

Why didn't Number two complete the job?"  Firstly, the "company" tool boxes are pathetic.  The animals I work with are very, very bad at putting things back into their proper place.  Secondly, the shop owner is hallucinating as far as service truck tool boxes are concerned.  He chewed my ass a few years ago about not being able to get into my assigned "road box".  He asked where the key was and I said "Right here on my key ring where it's supposed to be.  Where's the second key kept by the shop?"  You see, years ago we were assigned our own road box and were told that we were responsible for the contents.  Breakages of tools would be covered by the company, loss of tools would be our responsibility.  I followed that order to the letter.  So, when the owner told me that I had to leave the key for my assigned road box in the service truck, I responded with "I am no longer responsible for those tools."  You see, the shop owner isn't very good about putting things back where they belong.  He also is a messy guy.  Right after he used my assigned road box for the first time (totally neglecting the other, company owned and unassigned box right next to mine) I made up my mind that I was going to provide my own "road box."  He totally wrecked my company provided box.  Everything ended up in the bottom drawer, the handful of personal tools I had in there were covered in grease, oil and fuel....  I was on a mission.  I found a crappy Craftsman chest on one of the tool trucks (a trade-in), bought a bunch of second hand tools (as well as clearing my main box of "seconds") and mounted my very own road box into my service truck.  I was hell-bent on having the tools I expected to have, when I needed them.  It's been wonderful.  So many times have I heard people, who have driven my service truck, say something like "If I only would have had X tool, the job would have been easy."  I respond with "There is X tool on the truck.  But it's mine and I won't let  you have the key to my box."  Even the Owner has complained about certain tools not being on my service truck.  He'll start with "Every service truck should have..." As his gaze comes to me, he sees me smiling, smugly, passes me by and continues his rant.  It's a great feeling :)  Having my own, personal tool chest and locker on my service truck is the greatest thing in the world.  It's locked, it stays locked and there's not a damned thing anyone can do about it.  Therefore, I'm the only mechanic who can be certain of being able to complete tasks with the tools on  hand.  Probably time for another paragraph.

Ever since I installed my own road box into my service truck, I've championed the idea to everyone else.  At the very least I've insisted that the guys come up with a "Magic Road Call Satchel."  Wiring tools, a couple of screw drivers, pliers, vise grips etc. which they could pick up and take to the job.  Regardless of the truck they took.  I've even gone so far as to donate a second-hand chest to not one, but two, mechanics so they could start their own road box.  Neither of them did anything with it.  So I gave the chest to one of the new guys to put on top of his shop box.  Can't say I didn't try.  I led the horses to the pond but they didn't drink.  When I started at this shop we had two service trucks.  A guy would take whichever one was available.  Neither of them were stocked properly (required people restocking after every job, like that would happen.) nor were either of them organized, cleaned regularly or stocked with a dependable set of tools. That is when I started carrying my "Magic Satchel" on every service call.  I, at the very least, had that small amount of tools to count on.  That evolved into a "Mechanic's tool set" in a blow molded case that I took with me.  I had a set of sockets, wrenches and bits (screw driver, torx, allen etc.) that I could count on being available when I needed them.  Eventually I ended up with my own chest and locker in my service truck.  I rarely wont for certain tools.  Though I must say that I throw extra tools into the truck on an "as needed" basis.  Now, let's 'round third base and head for home.

After Number two came back from his second visit to the customer and explained "I didn't have the tools to change that treadle valve."  I said "Well, why not?  You knew what you were going there to do.  Why did you not load out properly?"  It was then that I found out the treadle valve was firewall mounted, not floor mounted.  I then explained to Number Two that he had diagnosed the treadle valve and he should have had some idea of what was going to be required to change it out.  He was silent.  He had seen the valve with his own eyes.  Strike three.

We end up with me being told that I had been picked to go and change this stupid treadle valve.  I rebelled instantly.  If I had been Number Two at the time I started at this shop, I would have been told that I had started the job, didn't complete it, and I would damned-well be the person to finish it.  It's how I learned that, even though a particular job may be really shitty, I would just have to do it.  Otherwise I'd be back another time for the same thing.  The lead tech (in my early days) had to clean up my mess a couple of times and it made me feel like shit.  I complete my work unless there's a damned good excuse not to.  Wrong part, vehicle not there etc.  The day I was told I would be changing that treadle valve, I gave Number Two a couple of options.  "Go to the customer and change that treadle valve or stay here, align that old Peterbilt and then deal with me being angry that I had to clean up your mess."  He did a three axle alignment on a Pete and I spent five hours in the cold changing a treadle valve.  Karma, however had its way with Number Two.  that Pete (an old P.O.S.) fought him every step of the way and then it spit a piece of junk into his eye which required some minor medical attention.  I learned long, long ago (from my Dad) that sometimes a person has to do things they don't want to do, because it's the right thing to do.

I hold no grudge against Number Two.  I was pissed off on that day, sure, but I turned it into a lesson.  He's feeling the same shame that I felt when I was in his position.  I can also say with certainty that he won't be caught under-tooled again.  I'm in the position now where the boss calls on me to be the closing pitcher.  When the other pitchers have failed, the boss calls on me to get the job done.  I've learned from my past experience and, believe me, I got the job done.

p.s.  I know there's people out there reading this rampant blog of mine.  One post has over 125 views despite me not putting any tags on it.  Not that I give a rat's ass about your input, but a comment from my readers would be nice every now and again.  So, sound off!  Who the hell are you?  What brought you here?  Why do you stay here?  Participate goddammit!

Duty

When it comes to my job, and my employer, I have responsibilities.  As the mechanics are concerned in our shop I'm #2 as far as seniority is concerned.  Probably #5 overall.  That doesn't mean I'm the second-most talented mechanic, it just means I've been around longer than every mechanic except one.  Number one in seniority is nothing to speak of.  He's one helluva guy in general but he's the most piss-poor mechanic I've ever seen.  Over twenty five years in the trade and he's still bumming common tools from other people.  And he's just not smart enough for this line of work.  And he's a slob.  And the company owner's brother.  Enough said.  The saying around the shop is that if the "Slob's" name wasn't the same as the owner, none of us would have ever met him because he would have been fired long, long ago.  On the flip side, he's the hardest working guy I've ever met.  He'll do anything for you.  "Hey, sorry to wake you at 3:00 a.m., but would you bring the wrecker out to me?"  He would be there.  Professionally, he needs to be gone.  Like 10 years ago.  Personally, I'm glad he's around.  Talk about conflict.  I digress.

Having become one of the "old guys" at our shop, and somehow finding myself saddled with the "night foreman" position (not for much longer, thankfully), I'm responsible for breaking in new mechanics.  Since I've acquired my current "foreskin" status, I've had to train six guys.  I've held the hands of many more, but I'm focusing on the mechanics that I've dealt with since I've been "promoted", temporarily, to foreman.  So far only one of them (thankfully he's still around) has been worth the effort.  I've had one complete dumbass (more muscle than brains), one who wouldn't admit lack of skill (a "know-it-all" who didn't), one raging alcoholic (he lasted three days), one former union guy who thinks he's still in a union (good luck with that mentality, dude!) and now I have yet another new guy.   This newest guy is new territory for me.  He's a veteran of the Iraq-istan war.  I don't know very much, but I know he's seen combat and has PTSD.  I've seen his eyes do that "thing".  It has me worried.  Not about him, but about me.  I've been educating myself about PTSD.  My experience with veterans at the courier company gave me some foundation, but I didn't know any particulars.  I'm not sure what to do.

I want to see the veteran succeed, I want to help him put one foot in front of the other.  But I don't want to be the "Civilian who doesn't know jack."  There is no possible way for me to ever understand what this guy has been through.  I can only comprehend him as he is now.  A combat veteran with PTSD who is trying to move forward in his life.  Do I act as things are just as they would be during a normal day at the shop?  That might be considered as ignoring reality.  Do I recognize his disorder?  That may come across as giving special treatment.  Do I ignore it completely because it's only a professional situation?  That would be heartless.  To any veteran reading this, I know this next statement will sound quite vain but I do have some understanding of what you've been through.  Yeah, I know.  I'm full of shit.  But please, let me explain my position.

My fourth (and fifth) grade teacher was a Vietnam veteran.  A Marine machine gunner.  When I was in fifth grade (roughly, my memory isn't that great these days) he went to visit the recently opened Vietnam War Memorial.  When I had him in fourth grade he hadn't quite come to terms with Vietnam.  A year later, after visiting the memorial, he was noticeably different.  I remember him sitting us down, as a class, after his return from the memorial, and having a brief Q&A session with us.  A bunch of fifth graders.  Only one question can I remember.  Stacy (she had a speech impediment, nice girl just the same) asked my teacher "S...s...sssooooo, did you shoot anybody?"  The first thing in my head was "NOOOOOOOO!!!!"  As a fifth grader, completely ignorant to the ways of the real world, I knew that the question Stacy asked was totally inappropriate.  My teacher, winning even more of my respect, politely declined to answer that question and moved on.  He told us about the trouble he had adjusting back to the "real world", couldn't sleep on a bed for months, loud noises made him duck etc.  Heck, he even showed me how to roll up the sleeves on my shirts in proper Marine fashion.  I will never forget him as a teacher, as a man, as a veteran and as a role model.  I'm extremely fortunate to have had him as a teacher for not just one year, but two!  My understanding of what war does to people started at those moments.  My Dad and his Brother were in the USN from '55 to '59, my Uncle Bob was a WWII Marine veteran, Uncle Mike served in the medical Corps during Vietnam (became a successful pathologist post-war), 'Ol Rob from the courier company was a vet of the USAF and USN, the courier company was full of Korean, Vietnam and Gulf war vets.  One of my close friends from my school days did a few tours in Iraq-istan.  The books I prefer to read are soldiers' memoirs.  The big picture doesn't interest me.  I want to know more of what the individual goes through.  I've know from an early age that war isn't a game.  My time in the fife and drum corps placed me at more Memorial Day services than most people (aside from the vets themselves) could imagine. It left a big impression on me.  I suppose the Fife and Drum Corps putting me in such close contact with so many veterans during my early years gave me a better appreciation of those people than most folks would get.

How would I convey this information to the newest of my coworkers?  How do I convey that I have some inkling as to what he's dealing with without coming across as some "armchair general" type of dick?  How do I express my gratitude for what he has done for me and my country without sounding like some "Tie a yellow ribbon 'round the 'ol oak tree" kind of chump?  How do I take everything I've already mentioned into consideration while still trying to seem "normal" and help him succeed with his career?  I'm faced with a challenge that I don't know how to address.  Frankly speaking, I'm scared.

With every new mechanic that has come into the shop after me, I've tried to do my best to help them succeed.  I feel that it's every "old timer's" duty to take the new guys under their wings and help them move forward.  But, this vet is unfamiliar territory to me.  I'll do my best to help him along.  I just hope I don't fail.

Where I was.

I normally don't like to write about subjects that may cause controversy.  I'm an introvert and don't really care to draw attention to myself.  However, there are a few things I believe in strongly enough that I throw the introvert into a temporary holding cell and stand up for the things I believe in.  What you are about to read is not politically, religiously or militarily motivated.  It is a simple recollection.

11 September, 2001.

I was in my late twenties, living in a small apartment, single (no surprise there) and two years into my job as a fleet mechanic at the courier company (see my "career blues" posts).  I woke up a little earlier than usual on that day, about 13:00, so I decided to turn on the TV until it was time to leave for work.  The first thing I saw was a news broadcast.  I saw a skyscraper with smoke coming out of it.  I didn't bat an eye and was looking for the remote so I could change the channel when I saw the subtitle.  All I saw was "...New York..."  My brain didn't process that information right away.  I imagine that I was slack-jawed and wide-eyed.  Once my brain had processed what my eyes were seeing I was glued to the TV.  I figured out it was the World Trade Center that was burning, that a whole lot of people had died, and were dying, then the loop started over.  I watched the airplane crash into the building and could not believe what I was seeing.  As the video footage replayed over and over I just sat there trying to comprehend what in the world was happening.  Eventually I started to come back to my senses and heard little snippets such as "terrorist", "air traffic being grounded".  By the time I put together the basic story I realized it was time to get to work.  I had a 55 minute commute to think about what I had just seen and heard.  The radio was on the during my drive and I absorbed every detail.  I was scared.

When I got to work I saw Rob just as I entered the shop.  The radio was on.  He had heard everything since things started happening, but hadn't seen anything on TV yet.  When I walked in, we just stared at each other for a solid minute.  It was one of the few times he didn't salute me when I walked in.  He didn't say anything, I didn't say anything... Everyone was in shocked disbelief.  I don't remember anything else about that day except that it was eerily quiet overhead.  The shop was only a few miles from a mid-sized airport and after some time I noticed there was no air traffic overhead.  Normally there was a lot of airplanes overhead since the shop was below one of the most used approaches to the airport.  Dispatch was chaos.  They were trying to figure out where all the drivers were, all but the most important routes were being cancelled,  the guys in the warehouse were trying to figure out how to sort all of the stuff that didn't get delivered...  When I got home that night I, somehow, managed to fall asleep.

In the days, weeks and months after that awful day, routine started returning to something resembling normal.  The most noticeable effect was the lack of air traffic.  We just couldn't get used to how quiet it was.  Every now and then the silence would be broken by F16s of the ANG.  The news coming from the east coast was heart breaking.  The sheer size of the catastrophe caused such a block in communications that people didn't know if their loved ones were alive or dead for weeks and weeks.

As usual, hindsight is 20/20.  I can look back on 11 September, 2001 and say that it was the day where my life changed.  Less than a year after the disaster the courier company had set in motion a plan to convert routes from company drivers to independent contractors.  That meant my days there were numbered.  I also became "old" after that attack.  Despite being in my late twenties, up until 11 September, 2001, I was overly happy and care free.  Things were going good locally, nationally and globally.  Overnight, that happiness was gone like the wind.  Life would never be the same again.  I don't have to tell you why.

I'm not going to go through any more details about the aftermath of 11 September, 2001.  They're well documented.  I just wanted to share my story of that day.