By Charlie Greene
When I was 10, an ordinary day turned tragic in a moment. My childhood world, small and sheltered, was disrupted by the news shared by my pediatrician during a routine visit. That morning, I stayed home due to a minor toe infection. As we sat in the exam room, the doctor informed us of a plane striking the World Trade Center in New York City.
A week before, life felt normal. My family and I had celebrated Labor Day at my grandfather’s house by Candlewood Lake in Connecticut. We sailed, cooked, and enjoyed simple moments together. My father, Donald Greene, was part of these cherished memories.
On this morning, he had left home for a business trip to San Francisco, flying out of Newark Airport. This was routine for him, as he worked in aviation. The night before his departure, I oddly requested that he wake me to say goodbye, something my mother later found significant.
After returning home from the doctor’s office, we saw smoke from the twin towers and the Pentagon on CNN. My mother, with a look of profound concern, informed me that my father’s plane was out of communication.
My father was aboard United Airlines Flight 93. Unlike other planes that hit the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, Flight 93 did not reach its intended target. Upon realizing their aircraft was hijacked towards Washington, passengers and crew took a brave stand. Their attempt to retake control caused the plane to crash in an empty field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, preventing further destruction. Those onboard sacrificed their lives for countless others.
For the past 25 years, my family has honored this memory by visiting the site in that rural field.