Through the Eyes of an Author

I’d like to share an experience I had five years ago.

September 13, 2004
This last weekend I flew from Boston to Pittsburgh (via Washington D.C.) to compete in the bagpipe events at the Ligonier Highland Games. When I arrived in Pittsburgh, I learned United had lost my garment bag – the one holding my carefully packed kilt. (At piping competitions, one must perform in Highland attire.) I was at the airport until well after midnight on Friday night and then again early Saturday, on the promise that the bag would arrive first thing in the morning (my first time of play was 11am Sat.)
It didn’t. It never left D.C. I drove the hour and a half to Ligonier spewing a stream of caustic invective, not knowing if I’d even be allowed to compete; I’d never tested the “Highland attire” rule before. The organizers and my judges were understanding and allowed me to play in my jeans (clothing now in its second day and with no toothbrush, or chance to buy one, I spoke to folks at arm’s length.) I didn’t do well in the overall placings, but was grateful for having the chance to compete.

My bag made it to Pittsburgh in time to be checked in for my flight home Saturday night (also routed through DC). It had been a long day and a frustrating trip. Had it been worth the effort?
The last leg (Washington to Boston) was a late flight. The plane was half empty and the lights were down so people could sleep. At about 10:30, the pilot came on and announced we were approaching Manhattan and that the World Trade Center ‘Tribute in Light’ was visible out our left window.

I’d forgotten that it was September 11^th. I looked out at the pillars of light blazing up at us and realized that this memorial was as much for those in the air as it was for those on the ground. Passengers on the left side of the plane got up so everyone had a chance to see it.
While some had been sleeping or dozing before, now soft conversation filled the darkened cabin. Most reminisced about where they were three years ago when it happened. The flight attendants spoke quietly among themselves about friends and colleagues who’d been lost (this was a United flight).

Here we were on 9/11, flying the reverse route of those ill-fated planes, over Manhatten gazing down on the beacons that cried out the site of such horrible loss. I rose and made an offer to my flight attendant, who replied with a determined nod. Retrieving them from the overhead compartment, I unpacked my pipes and (kneeling, because of the low ceiling) played a slow, deliberate Amazing Grace. The pilots opened the locked cockpit door to listen. Moist-eyed flight attendants formed a wall behind me. After, there was no conversation – there was nothing left to say. A few whispered “thank you’s” slipped through the silence. But beyond that we rode the last few miles burrowed in our own thoughts.

I’m still filled with emotions I can’t begin to describe, nor will ever forget. My trip was well worth it.