A journalist, a journey in 9/11

This weekend, my husband and I will probably go apple-picking.

It's a simple pleasure, enjoyed by many here in New England. 

But I will be thinking of how simple pleasures disappeared forever for nearly 3,000 people, many of them from here, on Sept. 11, 2001.

Tomorrow, as a journalist, I will start my weekend covering ceremonies in two communities. 

The attacks on Sept. 11 claimed the lives of two people in each of these communities, and their names are etched in granite stones in their towns' memorials.

Like a lot of people I'll be reflecting on where I was, and what I was doing, on that day, 20 years ago. 

I was a reporter at a daily newspaper in central Massachusetts, on a beautiful morning with clear skies.

Then came the news so horrifying it seemed like a movie plot -- a jet had crashed into the World Trade Center. 

Our daily edition had just gone to press. There was a quick gathering to plot out a second, special supplement for that morning. 

I remember stepping out onto the main street, whose silence was almost ghostly, looking for people to talk to. 

I remember calling my late husband -- the poet and scientist Lawrence Carradini -- who worked for the state, in a tower, and being unable to get through. I remember the relief of finally hearing his voice. 

My colleagues and I prepared for the likelihood that people in our coverage area would be watching, waiting, and fearing for loved ones.

Loved ones on one of two flights that left from Logan Airport, or who were living or working in the New York metropolitan area or in Washington D.C.

The next morning, I was on the phone to the family of a young man working for a financial firm in the South Tower, trapped in an office filling up with smoke. 

Not long after this, I was visiting the sister of another man, a flight attendant, with family locally and in Puerto Rico, and who was living his dream of traveling the world. 

Over the years, at other newspapers, the husbands, wives, and adult children of those who perished that day would tell me stories of their loved ones. Those stories told not only how and where and when they died -- but how they lived, and of their legacy. 

After my husband died, two women who lost their spouses on Sept. 11 would reach out to console me.

I stood in a supermarket, hugging one of them. While covering a ceremony and unveiling of a new memorial, another one took my hand and said, "It does get better."

My late husband hailed from the New York metro area, and still had family there, as well as in the D.C. area. 

They were all spared. I bless this act of grace -- and wish dearly that everyone had been so blessed.

For Thanksgiving in 2001, we went to visit our family, on Long Island.

 From there, we made the pilgrimage to Manhattan -- as citizens. These photos represent our efforts to capture what we saw amid the wreckage of what had been one of the world's central crossroads of commerce. 

We saw the destruction. But we also saw hope, and the pride of Americans who came to pay their respects. Many told me they felt a sense of unity as never before.

I will always be proud that, as a journalist, I had a role and a responsibility, in recording the events of Sept. 11, and their aftermath.

 I will remain humbled by those who entrusted me the stories of those they loved whose lives were taken on that day.

I sometimes think about our lives before that day, and afterward. During that summer, my late husband and I had found a box with three kittens in it -- so new their eyes were still closed.

We took them home, bottle-fed them, comforted them in the middle of the night, and when one of them began struggling, we did everything to save him -- and wept when we couldn't. 

We wept when it came time to give the surviving kittens to their new homes. And we made amends to our own cat, who found herself out of bounds of the bedroom until the interlopers had gone. 

Around that time, I had written an article about the perils turtles face trying to cross the region's busy roads -- and my article resulted in MassHighway clearing a clogged culvert in a wildlife sanctuary. 

After Sept. 11, I saw these events with new eyes.

A tiny, helpless kitten that neither riches nor power to offer anyone was worth saving, simply because it was alive. 

To the hijackers and those who orchestrated the attacks, life was expendable, and cheap. It could be snuffed out to send a message -- a message that died in the ashes with them. 

After Sept. 11, there were many calls to come together in a time of crisis. 

Now, two decades later, we find ourselves facing an enemy traveling on the very air we breathe. As a journalist, I am there to tell those stories as well. 

It's my hope that we will come together once more -- to defeat this new enemy, which has claimed 685,000 Americans -- my father in-law among them.

If we value life in a way that goes beyond mere words or slogans, we will take the simple steps that proclaim: "I do care."

This weekend, when in a fragrant New England orchard, I'll be thinking about life's worth, and the same thought that came to me on that day, 20 years ago: "I'm still alive." 

As long as we have life, we have an opportunity to make things better. And that is the choice we have before us, in every breath we take.

Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass. She welcomes visits to megsmithwriter.com.