ephemera

September 11th – On Antiques and Tribulations
by Pamela E. Apkarian-Russell

   We never think twice about getting into our van and driving to an antique show in Chicago or Florida and we never thought twice about hopping on a plane to fly to England and set up at shows like Bipex, Yeovill, York, or Ardingly. That was before 9/11 and the week we were stranded in London. Tragedy can give you a different perspective on life and your life style. It also, shows one how many good and kindly people there out in the great bad world we live in, how small the world is, and how large the hearts are of so many people we meet, some in passing, casually and some who hold their hand out and clasp ones in friendship. The antiques world has given us much but I never realized how much until 9/11.
   We always go over to England for Bipex, which is at the end of August, and the beginning of September. It is the most important international postcard show in the world with dealers attending from all over the world. It feels as natural to be there as being at the Metro show in NY City. You never think about not being able to go home after a show or a series of shows. It seems inconceivable, or it did to me until September 11th when we were about to board a plane and found that I couldn’t go home. There is an ocean of difference between not going home and not being allowed to go home.
   All six pieces, luggage and the antique beaded funerary wreath, I had purchased via Ebay, from a British dealer, and had delivered to my mother in law’s apartment were already loaded onto British Air flight 213 and we were waiting to board. We should have been settled in the plane by this time and I was feeling the same nervousness I always feel when I sense something isn’t quite right. Chris, the Englishman was off looking for rack cards, those free postcards that are left on racks in airports, movie theaters and the like, which we collect and sometimes trade for ones we do not have, and often mail off to friends. I was talking to a young red headed tot, who was on the seat beside me in the waiting area, when a young man rushed up.
   “I hear we have a problem,” he said to the attendant who was standing at the desk whispering with her colleague. It was impossible not to hear the conversation that ensued as I was sitting directly beside the counter. I queried the man who had his cell phone in his hand. “What’s happened?”
   “All flights to the USA have been canceled. They bombed the World Trade Center. Both towers are gone and the Pentagon is no more.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and another massive wave of nausea enveloped my mind for a few awful black moments.
    Standing up I turned to the British Air attendant and said, “What procedure should we follow?”
   “I don’t know, just get your bags and go home,” she said, looking totally incapable of handling the situation.
    Home I thought, that was what I was trying to do, get home. Back to New Hampshire where there was security, safety, being in your own country and in your own home, even if it is just down the street from Vermont Yankee. Chris arrived back without finding any rack cards and I informed him what was happening.
   The woman with the baby beside me was panicking. “I don’t have anywhere to go and no money left, and I need to warm milk up for the baby,” she moaned.
   “I suggest you stop at one of the food places in here and ask them to warm up the bottle for you. I’m sure, considering the situation they will accommodate you. Then collect your luggage and call the American Embassy. I have a feeling this is going to be a terrible nightmare for the entire world.” I slipped a five-pound note into the baby’s carriage and left quickly. The woman behind the counter had disappeared and everyone was in various states of confusion and panic not knowing what to do or where to go. “We’ll have to go through emigration first and then collect our baggage,” I told the people next to me. We headed down toward emigration and most people followed suit.
   I heard one man arguing with a security guard about having a business meeting the next morning and he had to be given a flight. America had just been bombed and this blithering idiot was worrying about a stupid business meeting. I hoped the leather on his expensive brief case dried out.
   We had to wait our turn to use the elevator. And I kicked myself, not for the first time, for having so many books in my lap top case and even more in our other hand luggage. Walking down the long corridor toward emigration I couldn’t help thinking: So this is how refugees feel. Suppose we are never able to get back to America and a full-blown war breaks out? What happens if I never get to see autumn in New England again, or my family or my cat?
   It wasn’t a pleasant thought and it sent a few moments of terror racing chillingly up and down my spine.
   It was at this point that I had to interject myself into a conversation that was occurring on my right with a man whose nationality I am not certain of but who had a decided French accent. He may have been Algerian. His remarks about Bush being a hate monger and being the cause of the disaster irritated me beyond belief. I might think I’m just as qualified as Bush to be president, which isn’t a great recommendation, but I was dammed if I was going to allow someone, anyone, defame the office he held, or blame him for something he had no control over. Especially as America had just been attacked.
   In retrospect, knowing what I know now, I wish I had gone off looking for a security guard, but that was September 11th, and we had no idea what had really happened and was happening.
   At emigration we had to split up. I went into the line of non-UK citizens or EEC members and Chris, a British citizen, in the other. He was through in moments while it took me well over an hour. An hour I used speaking with people who were as frustrated as I that all we were getting was hearsay and that Heathrow was not making any announcements and British Air seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth.
   A security guard came over to two heavily cloaked women and asked them why they were just sitting there. They spoke almost no English. “Istanbul,” she said.
“You’re going to Istanbul?” he asked, looking puzzled.
“Istanbul,” she repeated, and then “Bohstohn”. He wasn’t getting anywhere with the two Turkish women, who looked frightened and hadn’t the foggiest idea what was happening. I knew a little Turkish. My grandparents, refugees from the genocide of the Armenians by the Turks, had spoken it, and I had learned bits and pieces of it as well as the Armenian dialect my grandparents had spoken. I was able to get the two women to go and call home and try and get tickets back to Turkey — and not try and go on to Boston. I was convinced that we were in for a long stay in UK. It seems the two women were to be picked up at the airport by a relative, but they didn’t have any idea where they were going except the airport in Boston. I couldn’t help but feel badly for them, as it must be hell being stranded in a place where you don’t speak the language.
   When we arrived down at the baggage collection area it took me quite awhile to locate Chris. There were almost a thousand people there, waiting for their baggage that was being unloaded from one airliner or another. One could barely move for the luggage trolleys and the people. I spoke to one young couple who had a cell phone and had already called and reserved a hotel room at an exorbitant rate. They told me that there were very few hotels if any left in the London area. This didn’t affect us as we could go back to Chris’s mother’s apartment in Richmond on Thames and she would be quite happy to have her son back for a little longer.
   The couple called home again and were able to give us more details about what had happened. Only part of the Pentagon was destroyed, two planes had crashed into the Twin Towers, both the Canadian and Mexican borders were closed.
   The tears which I had so successfully held back, welled up in my eyes as I thought of the thousands of people who might be dead or dying. I knew people who worked at the Pentagon. Where they alive? Were they okay? My Grandmother’s words rang in my ears. “Not in my lifetime, but in yours, you will see it.” She had said there would be war on America and America was foolish to trust the Muslim world. My mother had said she had not wanted to see it and she had gotten her wish. She had died in a car accident only a few months earlier. Much of life is pain but the moments in-between can be very sweet. The wave of nausea passed over me again. Lasting only a few seconds but making me sway on my feet as if I was going to pass out, as if my heart was going to stop beating.
   The young couple were on their way home from their honeymoon and knew many people who worked in the Twin Towers. What the new wife desperately wanted, more than anything, was to get home. What a lousy way to extend a honeymoon. Over three hours from the time we first heard of the hijacking, as that is now what we knew it to be, we finally got our luggage. By this time every hotel in London was booked. British Air was telling people to get in line and they were handing out pieces of paper with a list of all the London hotels on it. What a waste of time, money and lack of foresight. All rooms were booked. They should have been given a list of rooms in Twickenham, Hounslow, Huntingdon and Richmond, not London proper. We advised people not to get in line and to get to a phone and call those places. One man actually came back and thanked us as he had gotten the last room where he had called.
   We then headed over to National Car Rental desk to rehire a vehicle, which seemed weird as we had only hours before dropped off our previous rental. Perhaps it was a lifetime before. I nearly passed out when they told me the amount, which was so much higher than what we had paid for the previous three weeks. With all the luggage we had and the weight of all the books I knew we had no choice other that to pay the piper.
   One couple in route from Europe asked us where they should go and what they should see and do. We told them to head west toward Stonehenge and recommended a few places to stay and many sites to see. They were in the enviable situation of having sufficient resources as well as the time and were going to utilize it as best they could. None of us had any idea of the extent of the damage, the loss of life, or what was really going on at home. Heathrow could have at least made a few announcements but not one word was heard over the loud speakers.
   A young girl about seventeen was standing alone, immobile, looking frightened and in a daze. I stopped to speak with her. She was changing planes in London when her flight was canceled; she was out of money and had no idea what to do. I gave her some coins for the phone, and my last five pounds and told her to go call the American Embassy and home if she could get through. We were already hearing phone lines through to the States were impossible to get. We headed toward the shuttle for National Car Rental wishing we could have done more for her, but we were now out of pounds ourselves and would need to use our charge cards the rest of the week, even for groceries.
   When we finally got to the shuttle the driver told us what he knew, but his radio wasn’t working properly. We picked up a Ford Focus, which was a grade down from the Citroen we had just returned. Considering the problems we’d had with the previous brand new, less than 800 miles on it, vehicle, this was like getting a Rolls Royce. Best of all, it didn’t smell of burnt plastic. The Citroen’s radio for 90 miles had gotten stuck and we couldn’t turn off the traffic monitor and had to hear Chatty Cathy babble on about the traffic non-stop. “Expect minor delays on the M5 between…on the M4 traffic is moving freely etc. etc.” A pothole finally cured her motor mouth mechanism.
   Chris had called his mother and she was ready for us when we arrived with a hot cup of tea and a much appreciated hot meal. This was a welcome sight as I had decided to skip breakfast that morning and except for an airport cookie, had not had anything to eat. We ate in the living room as I was glued to the television and would not leave it to go to the dining room table. I, who would not allow a TV into our home, was now riveted to the Telly as if life, civilization, my very existence depended upon it. The BBC gave excellent coverage but I would have done anything to have gotten WAMC, our public radio station out of Albany. I wanted to know if others were as dismayed as I was to see the President of the greatest nation on earth scuttling from Florida to La. to Nebraska. I was thrilled, however, to see hard-hatted Rudy Guliani take charge in New York City. Covered with dust, he was among the workers and the victims. There was comfort in that image.
   There was also comfort from Tony Blair, Prime Minister of England, standing firm and defiant against the insanity of the Taliban. As he pledged aid and help to America, he rose many a decibel in my estimation that day.
   It was very difficult to get through to the States the next few days.
   I called our friends Gwen and Bernie Goldman at their hotel in London. They were on a tour buying antiques but they had decided to stay a few days longer than the rest of their tour group. They were not scheduled to go back to Pa. until Friday. Gwen was suffering pains in her jaw and face. The hospital diagnosed it as anxiety, which didn’t make a lot of sense, as the problem had begun before the terrorist attacks. We discussed what was happening on the news in depth. Her “anxiety attacks” got worse and she landed up going to the hospital for the second time. They continued even after she arrived back in the States two days later than she should have. Having been diagnosed incorrectly, it turned out to be a series of mild heart attacks she was experiencing. She was fortunate she arrived home when she did, as her doctor recognized the symptoms when she called him, sent an ambulance to fetch her and in she went immediately for an angioplasty. Because of their health problems and age, they were able to get on an early flight but they had to sit around their hotel waiting for British Air to call them as they were on stand by.
    The days had dragged by with us listening to the news, which was heartbreaking. We went off and set up at a few postcard shows hoping to sell enough of the massive collection of cards that has been sitting in every nook and cranny of the apartment, which Chris had collected and hoarded like a dragon, many moons before we ever met. We didn’t really want to live off of our charge cards, and as the car was costing us a fortune, we felt it necessary to try and generate some income.
   The shows had dismal attendance, down by up to 75 % and there I was with no money and so many postcards and books there to tempt me. We paid show expenses and perhaps a trifle more and that was about it. Nothing to spend but a few nice trades for cards I could use to illustrate the articles and books I write. All the dealers were complaining and speculating on what was going to happen to the economy.
   The credit cards continued to climb at the grocery store and with phone bills back to the states. Petrol as they call it over there is much more expensive in the UK than in the US and every time I filled the tank I had extreme uncharitable thoughts about the oil companies.
   What touched us most was all out friends and acquaintances, and the calls we received from them to check up to see we were all right. Everyone who came through the shows knew we were stranded and what had happened in the States. They came and gave condolences and wishes that the death toll would be lower than the lowest estimates. I like to thing that the hopes and prayers of these good people were answered and that is why so many people escaped from those towering infernos.
   Our friend Janet Davis, whose collection was the nucleus for my “Washday Collectibles” book, called and asked for email addresses and messages we wanted to send back to the States. She would then call and read messages back to us. Our friend Linda Witherill who was taking care of our cat, The Mighty Bahron Muhrchoom the Magnificent, who was staying with her, rebooked our car starting the 12th from the States, which cut down the rental price considerably. She had also spent quite a bit of time explaining to our cat why his slaves had not returned to him on the date we had promised him we would.
   Everywhere we went, including the theater, which we decided to treat ourselves to, people asked me what I though about what was happening at home and hoped I would get home soon. We saw, “The Witches of Eastwick”, a fabulous musical production, which put the movie version to shame. It took place in Rhode Island. If only I had been there in the real Rhode Island, I could have driven home in a few hours or to NY City and given blood. I would then feel like I wasn’t disenfranchised, but part of the whole once again. It was an eerie feeling of alienation that sat like a heavy meal on one’s stomach.
   Having had a minor operation scheduled a few days after I was supposed to return to the states, our friend Crystal Snape of Golden Goose Antiques rescheduled it with the doctor, who arranged for another patient to switch dates. I was scheduled to speak at the Altrusa Club Antiques Show in Meredith, NH, as well as set up a booth there, and she called them for me and apologized that I would be unable to attend, as I was stranded in London. They were very kind and understanding about it and have asked me to come and speak this year. Everyone was going out of the way to be helpful and accommodating everywhere. Was this the way people cope with pain and anger? Could all the hate and bigotry that perpetuated these tragedies and inconveniences bring about such understanding and kindness from others? Could those who accused me of never having growing up, but living in the idealism of the sixties instead, be reverting back to those days when we were young and innocent and thought we could change the world — and gave it our best shot to do so?
   I ran out of medication and called the local Dr. and asked if I brought down my pill containers if she could okay it to get me enough medication until I got back home. These were medications for heart, thyroid and blood pressure, not happy time pills. The doctor was as friendly as a hungry boa constrictor. She might have been very pretty but approximately $75.00 later I still did not have a prescription. I then called the American Embassy and reached a blessed being called Kay. She had the doctor at the embassy take care of the prescription. We immediately went to Boots, the chemists, to pick up the medication. They were unable to verify the Dr’s authority to practice in the UK. The Embassy was now closed for the weekend. The pharmacist took it upon herself to allow me all but one of the medications. It was a first time for her doing something like this; as she was young and only an assistant, she did this with trepidation. They needed verification that the doctor at the embassy was allowed to prescribe in the UK. Although I assured them he was, as they had already assured me at the embassy, the druggist needed it in writing. Thankfully I made it home with the help of these people, and without any incident.
    On the 18th of September we arrived at Heathrow three hours early. We had heard security was very tight and we had been advised to do so when we confirmed our reservations. For most of that three hours we stood out in the cold drizzle in a line waiting for British Air to let us into the terminal to check in. Some people, in line before us, had been given blankets to wrap themselves in. We asked for some and a half an hour before we went into the building we were given one. By this time I was really shivering and had caught a chill. We chatted with the people around us, found out who they were, where they were coming from, and where they were going. The girl behind us was from Hayling Island and was joining her boy friend who was sailing in Marblehead. Chris had spent his summers on Hayling Island as a child and he happily chatted about the old days and his grandmother’s apple orchard. Everyone was thoroughly exhausted from standing, and chilled before they allowed us into the terminal. Check in was more rapid and security was more lax than I can ever remember it. This was a real surprise to us. As we went to go through security to our gate a man from British Air pulled the blanket off my wet shoulders and said, “Hey, you can’t take that in there with you, we’ll need that for others. Get one when you get on the plane.” I was still shivering and was running a temperature by that time. Our flight was delayed and then it was cancelled as the plane was having mechanical problems. Another two hour wait, and yet another gate.
   The man behind us had been bumped from an earlier flight and was upset he was being delayed again. “I wonder if we will get a three course meal,” he joked.
   “Yes, bread, water and a tooth pick I replied.” Finally we boarded the plane and took flight for America. The fact that the stewardess only paid attention to one woman and her child and forgot that the rest of the passengers was unimportant relative to the fact that we were headed home at long last. There were not any blankets on the plane but there were a few empty seats, which was upsetting considering that there were still people waiting to receive the blessing we had now received, the blessing of going home.
   Boston airport was pandemonium when we arrived. They asked me how long we had been gone. “Forever, but thank heavens we’re back now.” The official looked at me quizzically. We collected our belongings and went to customs where I had declarations to make. The funeral wreath in the large box raised an eyebrow or two from the agent. The heavy cases of books and postcards and every newspaper I had purchased trying to satisfy my news hungry soul. The two bags of daffodils we showed to the agriculture lady who opened, examined and passed them. When we got out of the airport I wanted to get down on my knees and kiss the ground. But Chris, ever the proper Englishman, asked me to please restrain myself. The cab ride to the John Nagle Co. near the fish pier, where our van was stored, went quickly. It was hours after closing, but they had anticipated problems and had moved the vehicle so that we could pick it up. It was very late, too late to go pick up his fur-purrship so we had to drive home first and then back to pick up “himself” the next morning. We turned into the driveway of our home. I stepped out on the damp grass of our yard and sank to my knees and looked up into a sky filled with millions of bright stars. Were there more stars there than ever before? It seemed so. Did each of them have the name of someone who’d had their life terminated so tragically on Sept 11th? It looked that way to me through my tears — and it still does.

   Does anything feel and smell as beautiful as the soil of the mother earth that we know and love? I doubted it then and always will.

   Oh, Dorothy Gale, you were so right, there is no place like home.

As a world that has no well,
Darkly bright in forest dell;
As a world without the gleam
Of the downward-going stream…
(Quote from the Rev. George McDonald 1824-1905 from “The Light Princess”)

Author’s Note: This story is the unabridged, unedited version, portions of which were used for the book “Glory: A Nation’s Spirit Defeats the Attack on America.” Sands Publishing, which was used to raise funds for the victims of 9/11.