A Fireman’s Daughter

I was planning to put up an ordinary post today. Full of adventures and anecdotes, my usual stuff. I can’t pretend that this date doesn’t mean something to me; I am choosing to acknowledge these feelings publicly.

I want to be clear here: this is a wellness blog, not a political one. I had no plans to ever write a post about 9/11. In fact, I have talked myself in to and out of and back in to writing this post about a gazillion times.

This morning though, I walked passed my neighborhood fire station and I saw all the tiny flags planted in the ground and I was moved. Because I am a fireman’s daughter.

It was a huge part of my identity when I was small. “My dad is a firefighter. He’s my hero*.” Man, did that get me a lot of juice boxes at the lunch table.

Those little flags reminded me of that pride, and they reminded me of the terror I used to feel at night when he was on duty and the phone would ring. They reminded me of how I felt as first responders died.

My dad doesn’t talk about his former job much. He never faced anything like that in my old home town, but he has alluded to a couple close calls.

I guess those flags really reminded me that I want to send love and appreciation to all the first responders out there (and while I’m at it, sanitation workers– they have a dangerous job and seldom get the appreciation and acknowledgement they deserve).

*I had many heroes, most of them fictional. My other real life hero was Eugenie Clark

However you feel about 9/11 and the events that followed, please keep it out of the comments to this post. Believe me, I am very opinionated about it all, but not here. Never here.

Please be respectful of the community. Offensive language and/or ad hominem attacks are unwelcome.

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