It was a beautiful, clear-blue-sky September day in 2001. My mother had come over to my house to help me work my way through a pile of freshly picked soybeans from my garden. We would pull the soybeans off the stalks, blanch them and then pinch the bean out of the pods. I was grateful for her help. There was a big pile of beans to do! My husband was busy working in his welding shop, adjacent to our house.
My mother and I sat in our little duplex carport and chatted as we worked. My father had passed away just a few months before and we were all still recovering from the suddenness of his death. It felt nice to be with my mother and have a chance to catch up. On that gorgeous September day, as we all went about our work, we were unaware of what was happening in the neighboring state of New York. It was September 11.
My husband got a phone call from my music producer. "Turn on the news," was all he said.
Since we didn't have a TV in the house, we turned on the radio. The reports were blasting across every station. Two towers... two planes... the Pentagon... Shanksville, Pennsylvania... a third plane? How many planes were there? Airports were shutting down. The Towers had been hit.
The memory of that day is seared deep into my memory. For some reason, the fact that I had just recently lost my father made the experience even more surreal. I missed him. I was used to going through tragedies with him.
When Princess Diana died tragically, my husband and I absorbed the shock with my parents in my parents' living room as we watched the televised funeral service. Worldwide tragedies seemed a little easier to process when you had a father to process them with. Now he was gone. The feeling sort of surprised me. The 9/11 tragedy had nothing to do with my father, yet it called attention to my own loss. I mourned along with everyone else in the world.
My husband and I never watched any visuals of that frightening day. For one thing, as I mentioned, we didn't have a TV and for another thing, even if we did, my heart is so sensitive to images of tragedy, that I wouldn't have watched it anyway.
But a few weeks ago, I picked up a DVD from the local library. The cover caught my eye. After twenty-two years, I felt like I wanted to know about the day our country had been reduced to a pile of rubble. I took the DVD off the shelf, knowing that I might only be able to watch just the beginning, and then I'd have to shut it off. The series was put out by The National Geographic–a documentary of 9/11; "One Day in America."
Although it occurred many years after the event, my urge to take action in response to what I had seen remained strong. A few days later, while listening to Alan Alda's book, "Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself," I came across a story that captured my attention. Three weeks following the Towers' attack, actor Richard Masur, actively supporting rescue workers on-site, reached out to Alan Alda. Richard asked if Alan would be willing to visit the site, listen, and provide support to the workers. Alan accepted the invitation and soon found himself aboard a boat with fellow theater professionals, heading down the Hudson toward the area known as "the pile." Their primary objective was to lend an empathetic ear, giving individuals a chance to express themselves and unburden their hearts.
During his time there, Alan learned that candy bars given to the workers had brought immense joy. Many acknowledged the impact of this small gesture but expressed regret that the candy had run out.
In response, Alan took it upon himself to contact the Hershey factory in Pennsylvania. He conveyed how much those candy bars meant to the workers and inquired if the company could send a truckload of Hershey bars to the site. While the company had already sent hard candy, logistical challenges had arisen due to truck congestion, with concerns that the chocolate bars might melt in the sun's heat. Alan provided the address of a warehouse further uptown, closer to Ground Zero, where the shipment could be stored in cooler conditions. In gratitude for his initiative, a truckload of Hershey bars was promptly dispatched to the workers.
As I absorbed this narrative, memories resurfaced of a mountain of Hershey bars where, in my younger days, I had found myself nestled. As farmers, we cherished a sense of camaraderie with our fellow farming families in the neighborhood. In particular, I'd frequently trek across the fields to the farm of a girl who lived just over the hill from ours. We reveled in shared adventures, from sledding and ice skating to savoring snacks in her kitchen. And yes, we'd luxuriate in large crates of chocolate bars, not fit for store shelves but perfectly suited for two young girls with a penchant for chocolate! Somehow, they had received a shipment of cardboard tubs filled with Hershey's chocolate bars. It was a chocolate lover's dream—endless stacks of chocolate, an abundance beyond measure.
For our thirty-fourth wedding anniversary on September 2, 2023, my husband and I visited The Hershey Story Museum in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Milton S. Hershey's entrepreneurship and vision to make chocolate bars that every American could afford and enjoy have been an inspiration to me for years. Living so close to the town, I became curious to learn more about it's history and it's story over the past decade. Fresh on my mind, as I toured the museum, I was thinking about the power of one man's vision to create something, follow through (even though it took him many years to perfect the recipe), and how it could impact a community and a country more than a century later.
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The Hershey Story Museum "I've got an idea..." |
Whether it's a chocolate bar or a song, we never know how something we create might touch someone else for generations to come.
As we commemorate another 9/11 anniversary, the lessons of vision, compassion, and community exemplified by Milton S. Hershey, Alan Alda, and countless rescue workers remind us that even in the darkest hours, humanity's resilience and generosity shine through. Inspired, I aspire to create something that, in its own unique way, touches the lives of others–perhaps mine will come in the form of a song.
Whether it's a chocolate bar or a song, we can never predict how our creations might resonate with future generations, leaving a legacy of kindness and connection for years to come.
