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Fw: From New York (no LCB)

To: Spridgets <spridgets@autox.team.net>
Subject: Fw: From New York (no LCB)
Date: Mon, 21 Jan 2002 06:38:32 -0800
This is from my father.  I apologize for the length, but his narration and
description was so articulate, I didn't want to edit it.
David Riker
74 Midget
63 Falcon
70 Torino
http://home.pacbell.net/davriker
----- Original Message -----
From "Dan Riker" <rikerd.riker-riker.com at riker-riker.com>
To: "David Riker" <davriker@pacbell.net>
Sent: Sunday, January 20, 2002 5:05 PM
Subject: From New York


> Friday....
>
> It stretches the limits of my memory to recall the last time I walked
these
> streets.  I was an impatient 5 year old boy, holding hands with my mother,
> being pulled along from store to store.  Memories of then, mix with sights
> of today; I recall it being more crowded, but the noise is the same, horns
> honking, unintelligible words mixed with the sounds of engines, and tires
> squealing on the street.  A subway train passes below me; there's the
rattle
> of steel wheels on steel tracks, and a rush of warm air is pushed through
> the sidewalk grate that I'm standing on. From someplace that I can't see,
> comes the sound of a siren and a jackhammer.  Pedestrians brush by looking
> straight ahead, or at their feet.  The only people who make eye contact
are
> street vendors, hawking pretzels, sausages, watches, and more.  Two
Latinos
> are pushing a cart with bolts of cloth, and two others, maneuver a rack of
> finished clothes.  There are fruit and magazine stands on every block, and
a
> policeman on every busy corner.
>
> We lived in an apartment across from Riverside Park and the shopping trips
> would start and end with a bus ride down Riverside Drive.  In memory, the
> buses were always crowded; no seats available, so we stood, with me
hanging
> onto a post, the back of a seat, or my mother's hand. From the perspective
> of a small boy, I was a captive in the midst of giants, sweaty, smelly
> giants; it was hot, and my feet hurt.
>
> We pushed our way onto an endless series of busses, with interim stops at
> one department store and then another.  The shopping bags grew heavier,
and
> more numerous.  There were stops for clothes, and makeup, and smelly
things
> that tickled my nose.
>
> It's nighttime now, and Macy's is still here, the Empire State Building is
> just down the street.  I'm sure that it was during one of those shopping
> trips, more then a half century ago, when I was last in there. The
uppermost
> part of the building is banded with red, white, and blue lights.  Once
again
> it's the tallest building on the skyline, and this patriotic display sends
a
> chill down my spine.  There are guards at the entrance, and metal
detectors
> in the lobby.  The ID badge that dangles around my neck is recognized as a
> "Ground Zero" pass, and I'm ushered in without charge.
>
> Two separate elevators are required to get to the top; I swallow to clear
my
> ears as the first one nears floor 80.  It's a short walk to the second
> elevator, then 6 more stories to the observation deck. Souvenir stands
sell
> metal and crystal replicas of the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State
> Building; among the post cards there are several that still show the World
> Trade Towers standing just down the street.  A biting wind is blowing and
> there aren't many people on the outer deck.  Most are on the side of the
> building that faces the site of World Trade Center.  There's not much to
be
> seen from this distance, but the vacant space says more, then the
buildings
> ever did.  Dust from the clean up effort diffuses the light, casting an
> eerie glow over the area.  No words can convey the feeling that spreads
> through me, no enlightenment will bring understanding; it's a hurt that
> refuses to heal, an anger that will never be soothed.
>
>
>
> Sunday:
> It was a difficult day, a day I've been looking forward to with
> apprehension, and yet an event I've been drawn to.  I spent much of
> yesterday getting ready, first walking to "Ground Zero", and then on to
the
> waterfront at the south end of Manhattan Island.  A ticket both at the
head
> of Pier 16 was distributing tickets that allow access to a viewing
platform
> next to remains of the Twin World Trade Towers.  There's no charge for the
> tickets, you paid your fee by waiting in the quarter mile long line that
> zigzagged between pylons down the pier.  Tickets were given on first come,
> first served basis, and were issued for a specific date, and 30-minute
> segment of time.  My access was for Sunday, January 20th, 2002, at 10:30
am.
>
> For me, Saturday continued with a narrated two-hour harbor tour; first
under
> the Brooklyn Bridge, then past the financial district, around the Statue
of
> Liberty, Ellis Island, and back to pier 16.  Along the way, we paused just
> off shore from the Winter Garden, near the empty space where the World
Trade
> Towers used to stand.  Narration stopped, and so did conversation as we
> contemplated the moment when light became darkness, and sound became
silence
> for so many.  It was with these thoughts in mind that today's walk
started.
>
> I awoke at 7:00, had a light breakfast and headed south down 8th avenue.
> Penn Station, and Madison Square Garden were on my left, the New York City
> Post Office on my right.  About 3 inches of snow had been compacted into
> slush-covered ice, and the sound of snow shovels and scrapers added to the
> normal mix of city sounds. After a few blocks I turned east to Broadway,
> then south again.  Every few blocks there was a small park, a patch of
grass
> and an occasional statue.  I passed a monument to William Seward, strange
to
> find a memorial to the man who negotiated the purchase of Alaska, in the
> heart of New York City.  The streets narrowed, and graffiti marked more of
> the roll down barricades that protect storefronts and windows.  The
theater
> district gave way to Greenwich Village, Little Italy, and Soho.  A few
> early-bird artists had set up displays and easels along the street.  I
heard
> two discussing the merits of inside versus street displays.  It was warmer
> inside, but there was an additional layer of overhead to be paid.  I
> continued south, past the campus of New York City University.
>
> By the time I got to the financial district, I'd walked 4-5 miles, my feet
> were wet, and I was chilled through.  It seems like there are more
Starbucks
> then there are McDonalds in Manhattan, and the smell of fresh coffee along
> with the promise of warmth coaxed me in for a brief brake.  It was not
quite
> 10:00, still more then a half hour till my appointed time slot.
>
> Warmed and rested I continued down Broadway to Fulton, growing more
> apprehensive as I approached "Ground Zero".  There's not much to be seen
> from a distance, but you can't help but notice broken windowpanes which
have
> been replaced with plywood, and the black mesh netting hanging from the
> surrounding buildings.  For the most part, these buildings are unoccupied,
> condemned or awaiting repair, and the mesh is supposed to contain falling
> debris.  I can't help but imagine the screens as gigantic morning veils,
> hiding the sadness that they feel.
>
> Access to the platform is from Fulton Street, with the barricaded Hilton
> Millennium Hotel on the left, and Trinity Church on the right. The hotel
> stands 60 or so stories tall, with an exterior of black glass.  Most of
the
> windows that faced the Towers are gone, replaced with plywood, painted
black
> to match the glass that remains.  Trinity Church is an old stone structure
> that could easily date back to the 1800s.  It's surrounded with a tall
iron
> fence, and serves as a rest and comfort station for the recovery workers.
I
> grow more and more apprehensive as I near the site.
>
> The waiting line is over a block long; there's a mixture of reverent
silence
> and chatter as people wait for their slice of time.  I hear the same
> questions over and over; "How do I get tickets?  How much do they cost?"
> The police are patient, answering each time as if it were the first.
>
> The entire length of the fence surrounding Trinity Church is covered with
> mementos and messages of condolence.  There are caps and hats, tee shirts,
> and pictures; the lump in my throat grows as I read one and then another.
I
> see a picture with the words "Missing, 9/11/01"; Missing is crossed out,
and
> above the words, written by had, is "Found 12/20/01".  Tears well in my
> eyes, but I swallow hard, and maintain control.
>
> Further down the fence is a hand written card, a note from a young girl to
> her missing father; "I miss you daddy, I can't wait to go to sleep at
night,
> to see you in my dreams."  The tears start to flow and I can't stop them.
> In that instant, the tragedy of death was eclipsed by the tragedy of life.
> I turned my back to the fence, and stepped out of line as that little
girl's
> sadness filled my heart.
>
> The walk down the platform, and the view was anticlimactic; my emotion
> spent, grieving for the living.  Some remnants of the Northern Tower
remain,
> large chunks of concrete with intermingled, twisted steel beams.  Little
is
> left of the Southern Tower, and each day the pit grows deeper as more of
the
> foundation is hauled away.  I have no idea what will be done with this
site,
> but I hope for a quiet memorial.  Some place where that little girl, and
> others who lost those dearest to them, can come for a moment of closeness.
> I can't imagine they'll find peace here, but it may help them hold on to
> memories of happier times.

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