REMEMBERING SEPTEMBER 11TH

There are a few days in your lifetime that you remember forever, in great detail.  Where you were, who you were with, and how you felt.

For me, that first huge memory was Nov. 22, 1963, when Kennedy was shot.  My firstborn was one month old, and I can remember the sun shining in our apartment window in Evanston, Illinois. My husband was at work in downtown Chicago.  I know I was wearing a black sweater, and my son had on a little white sleeper.   For about an hour, I simply sat and listened and watched, too stunned to move.  Suddenly, the stay-at-home moms  came out of their apartments and onto the sidewalk, and finally gathered in my apartment because it was the largest and could hold the most people.  And we talked and watched TV,  and no one had any thing to eat or drink for hours.

On 9/11, it was a different story.  My husband was able to take walks then, and he had a radio plugged into his ear.   It was a warm , sunny day and we were both wearing sleeveless shirts.   He heard it right away, of course, but when he told me what had happened, I thought at first it was a hoax, or he was mistaken.  Even then, we had no idea how extensive the damage, or how many people had been killed.  Finally, we passed a house where a young man whom we had never met came out from his doorway, and asked us if we had heard what happened.  So it was true.  We shook our heads, and mutely turned away, too stunned to reply.

Looking back, it seems strange that we were at war, but war was never declared (how did that differ from the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor?)  and life went on pretty much the same for those who lived far from New York & DC. 

ACTIVISTS PROTEST WHILE FARMERS PRAY FOR RAIN

Although my husband and I live in the city, we have an acre of land, and are surrounded by farmland.  As we drove past thirsty cornfields on the way to the cemetery on  Memorial Day, we thought about the anxious farmers who planted those fields. You see, my husband grew up on a farm in Nebraska, and my grandfather owned a farm in Indiana. And even though I lived in big cities like Chicago and Miami for a couple of decades, I never forgot the importance of rain.

Over the weekend, I read a fascinating book written by activist Cecile Richards, and it occurred to me that perhaps it offered an explanation of the great divide between big city liberals and heartland conservatives.   In general, people in flyover country don’t really have the time to devote their lives to activism.  They’re too busy producing the food that appears miraculously in New York and LA supermarkets for the people who live in high rise apartment buildings, and never have to  worry about mowing their lawns.

I thought about this last night while I was cleaning up my garden.  It finally rained,  so I could stop watering the flowerbeds and grass, and get to work.  I broke a pretty good sweat while down on my knees, tugging on weeds in the good, moist soil while my activist sisters in big cities were busy planning protests and hoping it wouldn't rain.  Here in the heartland,   people don’t have their heads in the clouds, they’re literally more down to earth.

I am not saying that’s good or bad; and I'm not defending either side of the political spectrum,  but it may explain the difference in the mindset of  middle America vs the east and west coasts.  Of course, we have our share of liberals and activists, especially on college campuses everywhere in the United States.  But generally speaking, people in small cities and towns in the Midwest  are more focused on just making a living and getting by, and yes, praying for rain.

NO MORE RETAIL THERAPY AT MACY'S

Walked through  the local mall today for the first time since Macy’s closed their doors.  The south end of the parking lot is empty and the halls are eerily quiet.

Once upon a time, big city department stores seemed like a magical dreamland to this hick from Purdue who graduated  college to work in  Chicago.  I took an entry level  job in an advertising agency only one block away from Marshall Field’s.  Heaven!  I could barely make my rent, and certainly couldn’t afford their clothes, but it was fun to enter those revolving doors , look up into the vaulted ceilings,  smell the exotic fragrances, and see the latest fashions, Then, I’d get out my sewing machine and copy those expensive dresses as best I could.

A few years later, I landed a job that sent me on a trip  to New York City.  Couldn’t wait to get to Macy’s. It seemed years ahead of Marshall Field's, and the epitome of  sophistication.

Then, fate knocked me around for a few years.  I got a divorce and landed back in the ingrown, Southern Indiana hometown I’d always wanted to escape.   But I got a good job which I needed to support three kids, so I was stuck in River City. Then,  lo and behold, Macy’s came to Indiana, and that made me feel as if a part of my old life had returned.  I wasn’t stuck in the boonies; I could shop at Macy’s!  

The  fun  of department store shopping has gone the way of the internet, and now, with Macy’s gone, retail therapy is never going to be the same. Farewell, Macy’s, and thanks for the memories.