The Only Plane In the Sky

I published this review in 2020. Today is the 25th anniversary of 9/11 and I have decided to repost it in memory of all those who lost their lives, as well as everyone affected by this terribly attack on our country. May we never forget. 

The Only Plane in the Sky: An Oral History of 9/11 by Garrett M. Graff
Nonfiction - History
2019 Avid Reader Press
Finished on January 11, 2020
Rating: 5/5 (Excellent)

Publisher's Blurb:

The first comprehensive oral history of September 11, 2001—a panoramic narrative woven from the voices of Americans on the front lines of an unprecedented national trauma.

Over the past eighteen years, monumental literature has been published about 9/11, from Lawrence Wright’s The Looming Tower, which traced the rise of al-Qaeda, to The 9/11 Commission Report, the government’s definitive factual retrospective of the attacks. But one perspective has been missing up to this point—a 360-degree account of the day told through the voices of the people who experienced it.

Now, in The Only Plane in the Sky, award-winning journalist and bestselling historian Garrett Graff tells the story of the day as it was lived—in the words of those who lived it. Drawing on never-before-published transcripts, recently declassified documents, original interviews, and oral histories from nearly five hundred government officials, first responders, witnesses, survivors, friends, and family members, Graff paints the most vivid and human portrait of the September 11 attacks yet.

Beginning in the predawn hours of airports in the Northeast, we meet the ticket agents who unknowingly usher terrorists onto their flights, and the flight attendants inside the hijacked planes. In New York City, first responders confront a scene of unimaginable horror at the Twin Towers. From a secret bunker underneath the White House, officials watch for incoming planes on radar. Aboard the small number of unarmed fighter jets in the air, pilots make a pact to fly into a hijacked airliner if necessary to bring it down. In the skies above Pennsylvania, civilians aboard United Flight 93 make the ultimate sacrifice in their place. Then, as the day moves forward and flights are grounded nationwide, Air Force One circles the country alone, its passengers isolated and afraid.

More than simply a collection of eyewitness testimonies, The Only Plane in the Sky is the historic narrative of how ordinary people grappled with extraordinary events in real time: the father and son working in the North Tower, caught on different ends of the impact zone; the firefighter searching for his wife who works at the World Trade Center; the operator of in-flight telephone calls who promises to share a passenger’s last words with his family; the beloved FDNY chaplain who bravely performs last rites for the dying, losing his own life when the Towers collapse; and the generals at the Pentagon who break down and weep when they are barred from rushing into the burning building to try to rescue their colleagues.

At once a powerful tribute to the courage of everyday Americans and an essential addition to the literature of 9/11, The Only Plane in the Sky weaves together the unforgettable personal experiences of the men and women who found themselves caught at the center of an unprecedented human drama. The result is a unique, profound, and searing exploration of humanity on a day that changed the course of history, and all of our lives.

I have so many thoughts about this book. As I began, I discovered I couldn't stop reading, very much like that September morning 18 years ago when I couldn't stop watching the news. It brought back vivid memories of where I was, who I was with, and how the shocking events of the attacks unfolded before my eyes as I watched the news reports in disbelief and horror. Like Garrett Graff's excellent compilation of interviews and transcripts, I simply could not pull my gaze from the scenes. I was afraid there would be more attacks and I felt compelled to know what was happening at every moment. At that time, my teenage daughter and I were living in Texas and my husband was working in Nebraska, so I was even more anxious, not being together as a family to face whatever might come.

From the first pages of this outstanding narrative, I was quickly engrossed, reading far into the night, which was not particularly a good thing since my dreams were full of images of that terrible day. I noticed that as I read, I was holding my breath, literally on the edge of my seat, despite the fact that I knew the terrible outcome as I turned each page. Yet, the intimacy of the oral histories revealed so much more than I saw on the TV broadcasts.

I had considered listening to the audio version of this book, but I'm glad that I decided to go with the print. Each chapter is arranged in a format of individual accounts, noting the name, place of employment, or relationship to a family member involved in the attacks. Without those visual references, I would have lost track of who was who; the print version made it easy to flip back and forth, refreshing my memory of the specific individual describing a particular anecdote. I also think the audio book (and hear all of those stories, which are read by a full cast of actors) would gut me. 

Here are just a few passages that gave me pause:

For those at the tip of Lower Manhattan, the only viable evacuation route turned out to be the water. A makeshift, unorganized armada of more than 130 ferries, pleasure yachts, sightseeing vessels, Coast Guard and police vessels, fireboats, and tugboats gathered--many without being asked--at Battery Park and nearby piers. By the end of the day, they had collectively evacuated somewhere between 300,000 and 500,000 people from Manhattan--a maritime rescue larger than the World War II evacuation from Dunkirk.

and

James Luongo, inspector, NYPD: At one point, there had to be 200 construction workers walking down West Street. I said, "Who's in charge?" They said, "Nobody's in charge. We're here to help." I'll never forget those men--big burly guys, coming down. So much of that day, so much of that day was just New Yorkers. People who can help people. A lot of credit goes to the fire department. A lot of credit goes to the police department and emergency response people. But that's what we get paid for. The amount of New Yorkers--just everyday New Yorkers--who stepped up to the plate that day was incredible.

and

Ileana Mayorga, management specialist, Volunteer Arlington: At 1:00 the phone started ringing, people who wanted to come and help. I put the names of all these people in an Excel sheet and what it is that they wanted to do. They wanted to help dig out the people at the Pentagon. They wanted to secure the area themselves. They wanted to enlist to go and fight. I had a man who called and he said, "I am 80 years old. I still fit in my pilot uniform from World War II. I can still see. I can still hear. I have kept up with my training as a pilot. Tell whoever you can tell that I'm ready to report for duty." That broke my heart, this 80-year-old man saying that.

and

Ileana Mayorga: It was completely amazing, the feeling of support, of unity. I felt so proud that my community, the Hispanic community, were calling. Suddenly the phones were ringing and saying, "This is the country that we chose to come to. Nobody will destroy our country." They would say, "I'm not legal in the United States. Do you think they will accept me to do volunteer work?"

and

As the morning of September 11th passed, a stunned, wounded nation found itself enveloped in a quiet--businesses and schools closed, traffic thinned, the normal air traffic overhead fell silent. Many Americans, both ordinary civilians and government officials, were glued to the television, soaking in the news, overcome with emotion.

and

At Ground Zero, an impromptu bucket brigade had begun work, trying to sift through the acres of burning wreckage in hopes of finding survivors and recovering the dead. The fires at Ground Zero would burn for another 99 days, until they were finally extinguished for good on December 19.

and

Paul McFadden [firefighter, Rescue 2, FDNY]: When everything settled, I lost 46 friends. The were either my friends or they were sons of my friends. 

I've read two other books that deal with the horrors of 9/11. The first is The Usual Rules by Joyce Maynard (reviewed here). The second is a memoir by Abigail Carter called The Alchemy of Loss: A Young Widow's Transformation (reviewed here). Both are excellent and The Only Plane in the Sky has inspired me to pull them from my shelves for a second reading.

Click here to listen to the Garrett Graff explain his research process and motivation for creating this comprehensive and important oral history of 9/11.

We must never forget.

Wordless Wednesday

Sunday Salon - September 11, 2011 (Part I)

September 11, 2001
We will never forget

A Moment of Silence

September 11, 2001
We will never forget.

The Alchemy of Loss

The Alchemy of Loss: A Young Widow's Transformation by Abigail Carter
Nonfiction - Memoir/Grief
2008 Health Communications, Inc.
Finished on 11/24/08
Rating: 4.5/5 (Terrific)
TLC Book Tour Participant



Publisher's Blurb:

On the morning of September 11, 2001, Abigail Carter received an urgent phone call from her husband, Arron: "Ab, Ab! There's an emergency. I'm in the World Trade Center and there's been a bomb." He never came home.

Abby had it all—a full life with a successful career and a loving husband, and a beautiful two-year-old son and a six-year-old daughter. But in a horrifying instant watched by the world, it was gone, and her family's lives were changed irreparably. The Alchemy of Loss chronicles the tumultuous four years Abby spent trying to come to terms with her loss that day. Honest, raw, and even humorous, this is a book she wished she could have found after Arron died.

During those challenging years, Abby came to realize that she had to turn everything she knew upside down in order to earn to live again—and that there is no one-size-fits-all path through grief. She gradually began to build a new life for herself and to see opportunities in her situation. She developed new skills as a single parent, started dating again, and eventually moved across the country for a fresh start in Seattle. Those years were powerfully transformative, and Abby now likens them to alchemy: from them she emerged a new person—wiser, more independent, more sure of herself.

A compelling, moving memoir and a loving portrait of a marriage, The Alchemy of Loss will prove a comfort for anyone who is dealing with unimaginable loss—and serve as an inspiration to us all.

Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day... (Alan Jackson)

I remember exactly where I was when I first heard the news. Someone had called the store (I was working at Borders in Fort Worth), telling us to turn on the TV right away. I stood with my co-workers, watching in disbelief and confusion as the reporters were discussing the first plane crash when the second plane hit the towers. I continued to watch during the morning and saw the reports about the Pentagon, as well as the crash of United Flight #93. I stood in stunned silence for what seemed like hours watching as the two towers collapsed. I stood horrified with sadness, anger, shock and bewilderment. I watched countless hours of CNN when I got home from work, unable to stop the tears. I worried about my parents who were vacationing in Germany and panicked as I heard fighter jets flying low overhead, later to learn that they were escorting a DFW American Airlines jet filled with grief counselors and staff to the East coast.

But Abigail's book and loss is not just about 9/11.

It's about the death of her husband, the death of her children's father, and the death of her in-laws' son.

And yet, her loss is a shared loss not simply with her family, or even the people of the United States, but rather with the entire world. We were all deeply affected by the events of that awful morning, most of us knowing someone who knew someone who died that day.

I knew that Abigail Carter's memoir was going to be a difficult read. What I didn't know was how I was going to react to the opening chapter; a chapter filled with all the horrific details of September 11th. I've only read one other book that focuses specifically on that day's events (Joyce Maynard's The Usual Rules), and as I did then, I found myself literally gripping the pages of the book, practically holding my breath with anticipation of reading the unfolding details. Carter's opening paragraph slams the reader right back into the intensity of that day. And yet, I couldn't stop reading in spite of the blinding tears in my eyes.

Why do I continue to read books filled with grief and sadness? Why am I so drawn to them?

In her preface, Carter writes:

Driven to write my story despite never having written before, I sat down at my computer shortly after the second anniversary of Arron's death and simply wrote "September 11, 2001." Words spilled onto the pages. I told myself I wanted to record the events for my children, who would someday ask for details, but I also secretly hoped my story would be more—something that could help others to cope with their own losses. I wanted to write the book I had not found, the one that would give me hope that my grief would not be permanent and that a whole new life might emerge from the ashes of loss.

Perhaps I'm searching for that perfect explanation and answer to why? Or maybe I'm simply looking to validate my thoughts and feelings about how to move through this process of grieving. I, too, sat down and wrote endless pages (on a steno pad, nonetheless), trying to sort through my thoughts and feelings. These vignettes eventually transpired into my blog of letters to my stepdaughter.

Like Abigail and her children, I have moved forward with my life. I've found happiness in the beauty of nature, books, friendships and work. My photography has brought me great joy. Yet, I haven't forgotten, nor will I ever forget, Rachel's beautiful smile or contagious laugh. And the pain of losing her will never completely diminish.

It's not unusual to share similar thoughts about grief with those who have been down the same road, but I was completely stunned when I read the following passage:

My first day back at work was a strange foray into public life... After being tucked away for two long months in my house with only minimal contact with people other than my family and closest friends, I feared how people at work were going to treat me. I still felt the weight, whenever I stepped in public, of what felt like others' reverence toward me, or pity, or fear. I found I could classify people into three categories: Those who empathized with me and who always managed to say just the right thing; those who didn't really understand, but tried anyway—they were usually the ones who said, "I'm sorry for your loss"; and those who didn't get it at all and just tried to avoid me altogether. How was I supposed to respond to "How are you?" That look of desperation in someone's eyes, willing me to tell them everything was fine. But it was not fine and it would never be fine. Could they see it in the dullness in my eyes?

And now a passage from my husband's blog (posted 12/11/05):

I did learn, though, that the division amongst friends and their ability to handle what’s happened is about the same at a party, proportionally, as it is at work and amongst our non-work circle of friends.

In other words, the 80/20 rule applies. In business, the 80/20 rule states that roughly 20% of your product line will generate roughly 80% of your revenue. The goal, then, is to determine what products constitute that valuable 20% and concentrate more on those than on the rest; if you can do that, you’ll drive revenue up and costs down. Or so I’ve been told by businessmen, sales reps, etc.

In terms of grief, the 80/20 rule works a little differently. It seems that a small number—about 20%, in fact—of your friends will fall into one of two camps: About half of that 20% will be able to talk about what happened. They’ll confront the issue head-on, they’ll attempt to be supportive; they’ll come to you and put their arms around you and say, “Are you doing OK? I’m so sorry. I know the holiday season must be very difficult for you. Can I do anything? Would you like to just sit down and talk?” And then they do sit down and talk, or listen to us as we talk.

These folks are very brave. We can’t be much fun to be around, especially when the conversation turns to your murder and to how we’re all holding up.

The other half of the 20% won’t talk to you at all. They simply cannot deal with what’s happened—perhaps they have their own losses to deal with, or they can’t bear to consider the possibility of such a loss. It’s a pain that’s not only too great to discuss, it’s too great to even imagine.

To these people, the bottom half of the 20%, the grieving are like lepers of old: We must be avoided, shunned, ignored; if we do travel amongst the non-grieving, we should be required to wear distinctive clothing, our gloomy passage marked by a lamp-bearer who rings a bell and shouts, “Unclean! Unclean!” as we pass by. It would be best, one feels, if there were colonies where the grief-stricken gathered, forced to huddle in amongst themselves; perhaps grief ghettos would serve to protect the normal folk as they go about their lives.

The remaining 80% of one’s friends and acquaintances can and do speak to us, but not about what’s happened. They try to pretend that everything is normal. We’re up and about, after all; we seem to be able to function—and besides, it’s been several months now, time to “get over it.” They can talk to you about just about anything, usually with a bright, chipper smile and a perky lilt to their voices. (Some of them are marketing people, so they can’t help this, of course; “perk” is part of their job description. It might be an inbred thing, I’m not sure.)

Sometimes, though, someone in the 80% group accidentally asks a dangerous question. He may look up and smile as I stand at the office coffeepot. “So,” he says, “how are you doing?” He doesn’t really want to know the answer. You can tell by his furtive, hangdog look that he didn’t really mean to ask that and that he regrets that it slipped out. Like a store clerk muttering “Have a nice day” after she finishes bagging the groceries, it was just something to say, words to fill a conversational void; it was meaningless chatter that was meant to remain meaningless. You can almost hear him thinking, “Oh, crap! Please don’t let him really answer that. I just want to talk about volleyball, or this terrible coffee, or the dress code at work.”

So, at work and at parties and in the world at large, the 80/20 rule seems to hold true. The vast majority of our friends and acquaintances need—for their own peace of mind—to pretend that all is well, that life is normal, that things can go on as they are, that the world isn’t falling apart.

Pretty much the same thoughts as Abigail's!

On grief and noise:

All the noises in the house were too loud to me. A Thomas the Tank Engine video, seemingly played on a loop, provided a constant background noise. The dog barked and I flinched.

What is it about grief and noise? I recall several instances when we happened to be in a restaurant and it was all we could do to get through our meal and rush out, throwing our money on the table. The sound of people enjoying themselves, laughing and talking to their friends, grated on our nerves, bringing us close to tears. We were so fragile back then, angry that the world continued to turn, annoyed that everyone else was enjoying life while we ours was shattered.

On public image:

My nervousness was also rooted in my fear of the unknown: this was my first public outing as a widow. I was certain that I must look different. Perhaps it was possible to see in my eyes that not only was I a widow but I was a 9/11 widow. I felt I had to act a special way, be demure, or red-eyed, or wear a black band around my arm, or carry a folded flag. I wished I could wear something that might explain my strange slow gait, and, what I felt must be, my vacant look.

I remember going for my afternoon walks on the bike path, listening to my music on my iPod, with tears streaming down my face. I saw the sidelong glances from those walking past me with their dogs or children and I found myself wishing I could explain that I had just returned from my stepdaughter's funeral and that I was just so horribly sad. I wanted the entire world to know of my pain.

Abigail shared my feelings:

"I'm numb. I don't really know how I feel. I was walking the dog today and met a couple of old ladies in the park. They were making a fuss over Harley and I blurted out that Harley had just lost her master in the World Trade Center. I shocked them and then felt terrible because I hated seeing the pity in their eyes. Yet I seemed to need to tell every stranger I met about my tragedy."

Yup.

On the roller-coaster of grief:

"Have a nice day!" the cashier sang at me.

I ran the cart to the car and threw the bags into the back and got in quickly before the full flood of tears began. I sat for several minutes, letting the tears come, and then let out a scream of frustration. Just when things seemed to be feeling normal, I was ricocheted back into grief. I drove home through my tears and put away the groceries, seeing that I had bought too much. The apples would rot in the bowl. The chicken would remain frozen for months. I looked at the empty space on top of the fridge where the chips used to reside, the only perceivable indication that my life had changed forever.

On grief support groups:

And yet I longed to connect to the community that these widows represented. They supported each other and had become friends. I still knew none of the 9/11 widows, other than Kimmy from the consulate. I wanted to know if their anger helped them, if their common mission to address the lack of policies and inadequacies that had conspired to create the buildings' collapse was a good outlet for their grief. I wondered if they felt as guilty as I did receiving money from charities. I wondered if they knew how to act when someone cried on their shoulder and they heard the words "Sorry for your loss" for the hundredth time. Did they tell their tragedies to strangers in the park? Kick the lawn mower? Did they fall asleep feeling the hole of their missing loved ones in the pits of their stomachs?

My husband and I joined a support group (Community of Friends - a spin-off of Compassionate Friends) for parents who have lost a child. (That's one euphemism I really came to hate. We didn't lose her. She was taken from us.) As painful as those meetings were, hearing all those parents share their sad stories, we both found it beneficial to talk to others who had similar thoughts and feelings about the death of their child. And, it was good for us to see that those who'd been grieving for several years (even decades) were able to laugh and joke and eventually enjoy life once again. It gave us hope and comfort.

On overcoming fear:

As I read the book [Awakening from Grief: Finding the Way Back to Joy by John Welshons], I realized that Arron's death had weakened my own fear. Perhaps my so-called communications with him were all in my head, but I was surviving his death. I was learning to live without him. I now knew that all of us had the ability to cope with loss in our lives, and that we learned from our losses.

Oh, I know this feeling so well. I'm quite a worrier. Or, I used to be. Not so much anymore. I used to be afraid of flying. I worried about foundations cracking. I panicked when our basement flooded. I imagined termites slowly demolishing our creaky-old floors. Yet after the death of our daughter, I realized I wasn't worrying quite as much as I used to. I wasn't afraid of dying. I wasn't anxious about black mold or carpenter ants. I had experienced a tragic death of a loved one and survived the emotional wreckage. Anything else is truly insignificant (well, with the exception of losing our younger daughter!). So I stopped worrying. Not completely, but enough to gain a sense of perspective and know what's really worth worrying about and what's simply a waste of time.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard people say, "I don't know how you do it. How you go on." I'm sure Abigail has heard those same words. And I would be willing to bet she thought the same thoughts as I: You just do. What other choice do you have? You just get up and put one foot in front of the other and eventually it gets a little bit easier. It's been a long, long time since I looked at the clock on a Saturday morning, remembering where I was when we got the phone call. I still know how many years (and how many Christmases) have passed without her, but I no longer count the weeks or months. And I smile when I hear her daddy play his guitar, because there was a long period of time when he couldn't even sing.

Thank you, Abby, for sharing such a tender account of your passage through grief with this reader. We may not know each other, but I think we know and understand one another's pain and suffering. It's good to know we've both reached a happier place in our lives. Here's to finding that "real, actual, wind-in-my-hair exuberance for something" once again.


TLC Book Tour Details

Be sure to visit Abby's website and blog. You may also read an excerpt here.

I'd like to send a big thank you to Lisa for inviting me to participate in this TLC Book Tour! Now that I've posted my review, I'm anxious to read all the others.

Abigail Carter’s TLC Book Tour Stops:

Monday, December 1st: Crash Course Widow

Wednesday, December 3rd: Solomother

Thursday, December 4th: The Tome Traveler

Monday, December 8th: Widows Quest

Tuesday, December 9th: A Novel Menagerie

Wednesday, December 10th: Anniegirl1138

Thursday, December 11th: Learning To Live

Monday, December 15th: Wormbook

Tuesday, December 16th: My Friend Amy

Wednesday, December 17th: Lesley’s Book Nook

Thursday, December 18th: Bloggin’ ‘Bout Books

Monday, December 22nd: Single Mom Finding Herself

The Usual Rules

Note: This review appeared in my monthly newsletter (March 2005). Apologies to those who have already read it.



The Usual Rules by Joyce Maynard
Contemporary Fiction
Rating: A+ (5/5 Excellent!)
Top Ten List for 2005




I'm just barely too young to answer the question, "Where were you when JFK was assassinated?" yet I will never forget September 11, 2001 and where I was for as long as I live. Having lived through that terrible day, how could I possibly read a novel that deals with the 9/11 tragedy as seen through the eyes of a thirteen-year-old? Nothing prepared me for the grief and overwhelming sadness in the book, yet I appreciated and admired the work ("enjoy" or "loved" aren't the right words to express my reaction -- how can a novel in which the first 130 pages deals with the raw emotions of 9/11 be something I loved?). Yet, how was it possible that I could not put this book down in spite of its horrific subject matter? Actually, I did have to put it down a couple of times. The writing was so convincing that I found myself re-living that awful day and didn't want to go to sleep feeling so horribly sad. Yet this is so much more than a story about a family who loses a loved one in the tragedy of that day. It's a remarkable coming-of-age story in which Joyce Maynard captures the voice of a strong, young girl trying to put her life back together.

You could say I cut my parenting teeth on Maynard's column (Domestic Pleasures) back in the late 1980s. She's one of those writers I've followed, both in her personal life (used to subscribe to her printed newsletters and now occasionally check out her website) and her novels. While The Usual Rules is a work of fiction, I recognized bits and pieces of her own children in the characters of Wendy and Louie. Louie is a precocious 4-year-old and I could almost get angry at Maynard for using him to tug so hard at my heartstrings.

I found myself marking dozens of pages in The Usual Rules, the voices of each character ringing true. As sad and difficult (at times) as it was to read, this is one of the best books I've read in a long time. It moved me and made me think and made me appreciate my family and life. It will certainly wind up in my Top Ten for 2005. No doubt about it.

Some of my favorite passages:

Wendy was stunned. She didn't know that anything she read in a book could hurt so much. She reread the words, in case she'd got them wrong. It was as if someone she actually knew had died and, just as she would for someone she had known, she felt herself begin to cry.

How can it be, Wendy asked Alan, that you'll be reading this story that's so sad, it almost hurts to look at the words on the page? What happens to the characters practically tears your stomach out - and then the book is over. And the first thing you want to do is find another book like that.

Does God know about this? Louie asked. In the context of the page, this really made me choke up!

Sometimes it was a flash flood. Other times it came on like a slow-building rainstorm, the kind that gives you enough warning you might even have time to get inside before the clouds burst. Once it started, though, there was nothing to do but let the sorrow pound you like the most powerful current, the strongest waterfall. When the sorrow hit, small losses came crashing over you in one suffocating torrent.

Somewhere in the pile under the shards of melted computers and telephones and file cabinets and computer discs and air conditioners and intercom systems and water coolers and Xerox machines and red sandals and every other color sandals and every other kind of shoes, under the shredded remains of business suits and briefcases and raincoats and car keys, gym bags and diaper bags and bag lunches and half-finished books, business cards and charge cards and postcards and anniversary cards and maybe somewhere even a love letter, or one word from one, or maybe just a question mark, some where beneath a million other pieces of paper and metal and plastic and - her brain would settle on this image whether she wanted to or not - pieces of bone, too, flesh and bone, somewhere in there was a scrap of a scrap of a photograph of her own self, under the Christmas tree, smiling, with her baby brother in her arms. I really like the cadence of this passage.

In September, everything she loved - songs on the radio and clothes and flavors of ice cream and types of dogs, leaf piles and roller coasters and skating, and Japanese animation movies and sushi and shopping and the clarinet and splashing in the waves at Nantucket with her brother - had melted away, not gone maybe, but this was almost worse: still there, but robbed of any capacity to give pleasure, like a soup with so many ingredients that, in the end, it tastes of nothing, like what happens when you mix all the wonderful colors of paint and it turns out that together what they add up to is brown. Again, lovely cadence.

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