Coming to Terms with Present-Day Life

(I realize that this article should've been posted a month ago, but I didn't think to write about it until this week. My apologies for the untimeliness.)



Nine years ago, I moved to a small town on Long Island that is presently my home. I was newly divorced, and the small Cape Cod-style house that I purchased was just perfect for a single mother and her two small children. The large front yard was ideal for impromptu soccer and football games, not to mention tag and whiffle ball. The cozy backyard had a deck off of the dining room where I would spend many a Saturday morning sipping tea in an Adirondack chair under the trees that hung over from my neighbor’s property. The inside was small, but charming; the living room had wood floors and a wonderful brick fireplace, and the kitchen was done in a warm and comforting oak. My bedroom was on the first floor; each one of my kids had a small bedroom upstairs. I couldn’t be more grateful for my adorable little home, or more thankful for where it was located.

As the years rolled on, I eventually couldn’t go to the local supermarket without seeing someone I knew. I belonged to the Catholic Church, and apparently, so did most of the town. No matter where you went—dentist, doctor, dry cleaner—you were bound to see someone familiar. And I loved every second of it! I took great pleasure in waving to people I knew while strolling down the main street and admiring all of the beautiful homes, most of them older and some even designated landmarks. This street would be the sight of our yearly Little League Parade on opening day. I would walk along the sidewalk as my son and his friends strutted proudly down the street displaying their team banners. I remember thinking back then that life doesn’t get any better in a place like this, and I would be happy to live here for the rest of my life. I was content, and I was safe. That is, until 9/11/01.

I realize that no matter where you were on that day, be it as close as Pennsylvania or as far away as Hawaii, 9/11 gave you a new reality. I left work after the first tower fell, and raced to my cousin’s house several blocks away from my own. Together we went to our children’s schools to see if they were letting them out, which they weren’t. We decided to go to our local supermarket and stock up on canned goods and water. We perused the aisles for anything that we could store in our basements, God forbid we had to hide out below ground for any reason. When we left the store and drove down our main street on that beautiful day, all I can remember thinking was how insecure and uneasy I felt. I wondered if I would ever feel safe again.

Being so close to the events of that day changed my mentality in a way that I can not even describe. As the days went on, there was a strange stench in the air as ashes and small, feather-light particles fell sporadically from the sky. Then the funerals started…all day events for dozens of people around the area who perished in the towers. Some were from Cantor-Fitzgerald; countless others were firefighters and police officers who worked in the city but lived in and around our town. Everyone knew somebody who died in the tragedy, myself included. It was a sad, surreal time and it will be with me for as long as I live.

As it stands now, you can’t go over a bridge or through a tunnel without reading several signs describing what “strange activity” would look like, and “If you see something, say something.” I can’t help but feel that we are a giant "bulls-eye", and the scariest thing of all is that if the bridges and the tunnels are destroyed, we are stuck here on the island without a way off. My once-perfect Shangri-La has become nothing more than a prison to me, and there’s not one thing I can do about it. If my husband and I did not have ex-spouses to worry about and our kids were little, we would’ve been out of here a long time ago. Add to everything the outrageous cost of living on this island and my dream has become my nightmare. My house is worth three times what I paid for it, but the taxes in this area went up as well and have earned the honor of being the highest taxes in the nation. Don’t let me forget to mention that there are now six people living here instead of three. And we have new neighbors that moved in next door from Queens, who decided to cut down every beautiful tree in their backyard, leaving my deck the heat equivalent of Death Valley. This same neighbor actually asked us to remove a very old, large maple that’s justthisclose to his property, to which of course, we said “No way!!” (I’ve always wondered about this, anyway: Don’t people come to this area for the trees and for the fact that they don’t want to live in a cement jungle anymore? Why does everyone from the city always cut the trees down, and try to make this town look like where they came from?). Sometimes, I just want to scream in frustration. Other times, I just feel helpless and hopeless.

My husband and I have made a pact that we will move away from here when our youngest graduates high school in 4 ½ years, God willing. Whether we do it or not, we need the dream to get us through each day. Neither one of us has ever been very good at living in the matrix, which a lot of people do around here; floating around almost as if 9/11 never happened or was a dream, and that nothing horrible like that could ever happen again. My own physician told me that most of us don’t even realize the stress we’re under just existing in a post-9/11 world (for example, I never used to think about anything while crossing the previously-mentioned bridges except the upstate destination that I was headed towards. Now my whole thought pattern changes when I read the safety signs, because I’m reminded of the reality of living in NY). Our dream home will most likely be a log cabin up in the mountains with enough room for our kids and their families for generations to come. Yes, this is our vision…and as the bible says, “A man without vision shall perish.” Or in other words, as I mentioned in a previous post, “If you give up your dreams, you die.” We’re not ready for that yet, so we will keep on “keepin’ on”. It’s a matter of our sanity—and our survival.