Where Flight 93 went down: There's not much to see, but it's a good place to mourn Pittsburgh Post Gazette
Windber in February is as faint as it sounds, midway between Somerset and Johnstown in southwestern Pennsylvania. I traveled the two hours there from Pittsburgh on Valentine's Day to see a nearing client, a quiet, mesial-aged man in a cardigan sweater who runs a biotech firm. We talked about the work, then his son's aged school rifle link up and his hobbies of hunting and fishing. When I mentioned that I had noticed the signs for the Connected Flight 93 instal on my way and thought of stopping, he nodded.
"I actual just about a mile and half from there. Not much to see."
He looked down at the papers on his desk and changed the undergo. It felt as if a warning clarification had softly begun blinking, reminding me to tread carefully. When I was younger, I defiantly marched into such peril zones; I am more cautious now.
I was 11 when my mother died. My attempts to talk to my four brothers and old man about her death drives them further away, not closer.
At 52, my ruth still feels awkward, unprincipled, like I'm carrying around a big salty vat of drinking-water that spills over at inconvenient moments. But the tears are like enthusiastic water on ice, carving a shortcut to a part inside myself that is hard to reach by any other course. Sometimes I look for ways to get there.
