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 The
VigilanceVoice
VigilanceVoice.com
Saturday--July
13, 2002—Ground Zero Plus
304
Roadside Terror: Mixed Into
A Day
With A New 9/11 Mother & Child
by
Cliff McKenzie
Editor, New York City Combat Correspondent News
GROUND ZERO, New York City, July 12--I spent the day yesterday with
a 9/11 Mother and her new baby. It started out great, but ended in
Roadside Terror.
Just over a month old, the little boy
looked a bit like a mini Winston Churchill with flustered red chipmunk
pouches for cheeks, squinty eyes, and rolls of baby fat on his arms and
legs that stiffened and kicked whenever he wanted his nook for a snack.
Mommy Vigilance was there to keep him from
the Terror of hunger, cold, and provide the comfort of her arms and soft,
maternal Voice reminding him that he was under her shield of protection
from any and all danger--including wet or soiled diapers.
I looked upon the little child with special
interest. He is my grandson, the third child of my daughter who has
a son 6, and a daughter 4. The new baby is special, conceived
in the wake of 9/11, a child of Vigilance whose stock in trade is to bring
more beauty than ugliness to a world burdened with the shadow of
Terrorism.
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My wife, son-in-law and the two older
children were at Sesame Place, a couple of hours drive away, enjoying the
water slides and roller coasters and fun-washed acres designed to bring
joy and awe to little ones. My daughter had called to ask for
some help in reconstructing her futon couch-bed, one of those metal braced ones
that despite the salesman's promise starts to fall apart after young kids bounce and play on them.
I went over in the early morning and, due to
circumstances that included "Road Terror," didn't leave until nearly 1 a.m.
My daughter is a Mrs. Fixit lady. She
has traveled throughout the world, and her most joyous memories include
building houses for the poor and impoverished in Mexico. She's
not shy about swinging a hammer, or using a power saw, or putting up
frames and drywall. She also lived in Guatemala and El
Salvador with villagers, shucking corn in the morning for the evening
meal, bathing and doing laundry in rivers, and staring down the barrel of machine guns by El
Salvadorian soldiers who threatened to shoot the villagers she lived with
if they didn't move off the land they were squatting upon.
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In other words, she's quite self sufficient
as a mother, a woman, and promotes the independence of others as well as
her own and her family's. I was proud she asked for "Dad's"
help, knowing she really didn't need it. That's a high
compliment.
I trundled over to her apartment with my
Dremel and Black and Decker drills to aid her. She had the bed apart, but the
reinforcement of it required a couple of 2x4's, and some drilling into the
metal to assure they were bolted firmly to the frame.
Being a good New Yorker (2.5 years in the
City from Dana Point, California), I chose not to go to the lumber store
to buy the wood. I had originally done that when I first
arrived, and after spending a few hundred dollars for the same wood I saw
laying on the streets or in Dumpsters, I chose to go street wood hunting.
In New York City just about anything you could
imagine is placed on the sidewalks by people moving and discarding old for
the new. I believe one could furnish an entire apartment from
goods found on the street, all quality items, if one took the time to hunt
for them.
I walked many blocks, peering in construction
dumpsters on the streets, Finally I found my two precious
2x4's, slung them over my shoulder and weaved in and out of the pedestrian
traffic. I wondered if a cop might give me a ticket since I didn't
have a red flag on the end of the ten-foot long sticks of wood.
Back at the apartment, I used my Dremel and
diamond drill to cut the wood and notch it so it would fit perfectly.
My daughter helped out, baby slung under her in a front-carrying papoose
contraption. Together we figured out how we would attach the
wood.
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The project started about 11 a.m. and we were
trying to hurry and get it finished before 6 p.m., an estimated time the
kids would be returned from the day-long trip.
My daughter and I talked and shared some quality
father-daughter time, reflecting back to our adventures as she was growing
up, and how instead of turning into a famous artist on Madison Avenue for
an elite fashion agency, she was the mother of three working with
marginalized citizens and indigents, and had just received her Masters of
Divinity degree from New York Union Theological. I reminded her that
her children might grow up to be Republican capitalists, since parents had
little control over their children's political or professional goals.
She laughed, and agreed.
Throughout the day, I kept a grandfatherly
eye on the new grandson, noticing how his mother was there for and with
him all the time. Every now then I put his nook in his mouth
to help Mom out when she was on the phone.
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Finally, we accomplished our task.
The bed was a solid as a rock. The two-by-fours served as a sturdy
brace, and
my stove bolts had secured the bed to the frame with an endurance I was
proud to acclaim would "last forever."
Then we waited for the family to return.
We waited and waited.
Finally, I had to leave to attend a
meeting. I told my daughter I'd give her a call afterward.
I went to meet some people then stopped by Starbucks to enjoy a coffee on
the patio and do some writing. Just as I sat down with my iced decaf
venti Americano, I noticed my daughter walking by with the baby. She
joined me and told me she had gotten a call that the family had left late,
and wouldn't be home until around 9p.m. So we sat and chatted
about life. I relayed my working history to her, as she wasn't
aware I was a shoe shine boy, or sacked groceries, or worked on a survey
crew or fought fires as a young man.
"Gee, Dad, you've done a lot of things."
I was in my glory, telling her "when I was a
kid," we had no money. If I wanted a buck I mowed a yard, or cleaned
out someone's garage, or did some chore. I told her about the
year and a half I spent in Goose Bay, Labrador working for the Air Force
as a civilian printing secret documents because Canadians couldn't get
security clearances, and about the characters I met there. I told
her about being a paper boy, and how my customers tried to short me at
collection time. And about washing dishes and playing "what would
you do with a million dollars" with my fellow dishwasher buddies.
I was hoping the young one slung around her chest was listening to G-Pa's
fables.
She had to go to K-Mart to get some things for
the baby, so I joined her. We walked back to her apartment
only to find that disaster had struck. There was a message on the
answering machine. The front tire on the car had exploded, and the family
was stranded on the New Jersey Turnpike. No one was stopping
to help.
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Terrorism set in. My wife,
son-in-law, two grandchildren, and their cousin, another 4-year-old, were
immobilized. The car was pulled off the road as far as
possible, but no help was imminent. The
jack wasn't working to get the spare tire on. My wife
said she called the Auto Club. But the operator said the AAA
couldn't service any cars on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. She
wouldn't give up yet call after call was met with either hang ups or
rejections. "That's not our jurisdiction" came the responses
. My wife and son-in-law carefully studied their
confusing road map and discovered they had crossed the Delaware River
Bridge and were in New Jersey. However, the New Jersey Auto Club
didn't have a clue where they were despite my wife's description of road
signs next to their disabled car and also refused to consult their maps.
A 'mile marker' was necessary to get assistance from them. There
were no mile markers on either side of the wide turnpike up or down the
roadway. My son-in -law had obligingly trudged along the shoulder
seeking a marker. The road sign with exit to 303 apparently didn't mean
anything to the operator.
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Frustrated, my wife called AAA in Southern
California where our membership is based. We are here
temporarily while my wife undergoes cancer treatment at Sloan Kettering. Doubling
up on the "I'm not just an Auto Club member but also a grandma
stranded on the highway with three small children and it's almost
dark. You have to help us for God's sake." She
told her she definitely would and not to worry she would remain on the
line until the Auto Club in New Jersey took their call. This
final guy, Anthony, consulted an actual map and informed them they were on
a transition part of the highway preceding the New Jersey Turnpike.
He took the time to listen to their plea, and suggested calling 911
since the number for the roadway assistance for their area was hard to
reach and would take an even longer time then they'd already waited.
He attempted the number for them but had no luck. He told my
son-in-law again to call 911. If the Highway Patrol requested
AAA, then they would come.
Trucks were swishing by, rocking the car
even though it was as far off the traffic lanes as possible. The
kids were getting scared, worried about "monsters in the night."
It was dark. Two and a half hours had passed. The cell phone
pre-pay card was almost depleted.
Anthony's advice worked. They called 911,
were treated kindly and were guaranteed help that arrived twenty minutes
later.
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My daughter and I were at the other end, keeping
abreast of the news. My daughter's mother instincts conjured
up all sort of scenes, and we waited for the call they had been towed to a
service station.
Finally, it came. They had been
rescued. Now they waited for the tire to be replaced.
I hadn't spent a full day with my daughter in a
long time. We started out having fun, working together, we
ended up in the middle of a crisis, now, we patiently waited for the
arrival of the family.
It was approaching 1 a.m. when they drove up.
I opened the gate and let them in, carried the kids to the bedroom, and
re-listened to the horror story of how AAA had refused to help, had hung up
on them, and finally one valiant guy had taken the time to assist
them--two and a half hours later.
As I walked home with my wife, I reflected on the day.
It had been both Vigilant and Terror-ridden. I had started out
just to help her fix a bed, and was able to offer soothing comfort during
a time of crisis.
I thought about the lack of Vigilance on the part
of AAA. It seemed such a crime to not go to any lengths to help out
a family stranded on a lonely road, with trucks whizzing by, the car with
three small children, a cancer-stricken grandmother making call after call
to the Auto Club, a frenzied father unable to operate the faulty jack
pacing up and down the shoulder trying to stay cool and a new mother at home.
My wife was incredibly upset at AAA.
One of the Auto Club operators she reached asked for her address, and when she gave a
New York address, the one we are temporarily staying at, the person
laughed and said, "you're not the person you say you are. The address we
have for you is in California." When she tried to explain she
was temporarily here in New York undergoing special chemotherapy and that
she had been careful to change her membership address, the person just hung
up.
"It was awful," she said. "We felt so alone."
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Terrorism has many forms. It struck me that
people who are in the Emergency Services business have a special duty to
render assistance, one that equals a fireman or a policeman. Had
something terrible happened, Triple AAA would have paid the price for its
negligence, its Complacency.
My daughter was familiar with "Road Terror." One
of her close friends was rear-ended a number of years ago while parked on
the side of a road with car trouble. Three of her passengers were
killed instantly, but she miraculously survived. As a
family, we had gone up to the trauma center in Bakersfield, California, where
she lay critically wounded and stayed for a week, offering prayers and
support.
The evening with my daughter was fraught with Fear
fighting the Courage to not Fear, Conviction battling with Intimidation
that something would happen, and the ability to take the Right Action
versus fall into a state of Complacency.
We all hugged one another upon the safe return of
the kids and adults. Vigilance had won out, because of the
last desperate phone call, and the advice of the Vigilant man who
suggested the call to 911.
As a Citizen of Vigilance, I wonder how
anyone could be put on the phone to answer emergency services without
having some compassion, and without going the "extra mile" to help anyone
who is stranded--especially a grandmother with three little kids on a dark
road.
It only reminds me that Terrorism is not
just about Osama bin Laden, it is a state of mind that infects far too
many, especially Triple A Auto Club emergency road service workers.
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The hang ups, the disconnects, the words,
"that's out of our jurisdiction," without any effort to resolve the
problem all conspire to make one want to tear up one's AAA card.
But that would feed more Terrorism.
Complacency is not the answer.
So my wife I have decided to send a letter
spelling out the details to all the AAA offices involved, and perhaps,
maybe, hopefully, the emergency road service workers will think twice
about Vigilance and less about Terrorizing the Terrorized.
Go
To July 12--Six Shooters In The Sky
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